


Then Shall I Know

by Darsynia, Ssergit (Darsynia)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst and Humor, Banter, F/M, Hermione is nice to Snape even after he treated her like shit for years, JKR changed Hermione's middle name after I started this, Marauders' Era, Pranks and Practical Jokes, Remus Lupin is perceptive, SO MUCH BANTER, Slow Burn, Time Travel Fix-It, but now I am writing again on it because I loff it and I loff you, don't hate me but Peter is three-dimensional in this, falling in love with one would also be ok, he probably still won't appreciate it though, look with your eyes not with your hands Hermione, not Deathly Hallows compliant, story was on hiatus for 8 years, we all should have a Sirius to go to school with
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2006-04-02
Updated: 2018-12-22
Packaged: 2019-02-11 23:42:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 51
Words: 164,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12946575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darsynia/pseuds/Darsynia, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darsynia/pseuds/Ssergit
Summary: During her 7th year at Hogwarts Hermione is thrown back 20 years in time by a device that activates only on a solstice. As she waits for December 21, 1977, Hermione must walk a fine line of existing in the past without influencing it, despite everything and everyone she loved (and comes to love) who will be affected by the events she knows will come to pass. When she returns, will Remus forgive her? Will Sirius?





	1. Time is on Your Side ((Part I))

**Author's Note:**

> I started this story before Deathly Hallows was released, and it ignores a fair chunk of Half-Blood Prince. As a result, certain facts such as various birthdays or Hermione's middle name (which JKR had in her notes as 'Jane' before settling on 'Jean' in DH) may conflict with canon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Just caught something I forgot to mention! In this story, Bill Weasley was the DADA professor during Harry, Ron, and Hermione's 6th year at Hogwarts. This frees up Professor Snape to be DADA professor 7th year, as when I wrote this, DH hadn't come out and we didn't know they wouldn't attend in canon. So, Bill gets hit with the curse of the DADA position, as alluded to in the dialogue of Chapter 1. Thanks!

"For now we see through a glass darkly, but then face to face;  
now I know in part, but then shall I know even as also I am known.”  
- _First Corinthians, The Bible_

**THEN SHALL I KNOW**

Part I: Weep Not For the Memories

I will remember you  
Will you remember me?  
Don't let your life pass you by  
Weep not for the memories  
- _I Will Remember You, Sarah Mclachlan_

_Prologue_

Professor Dumbledore walked away from his Pensieve and sat down at his desk, shaking his head in amazement. The experience he’d just had was—well, extraordinary. He hadn’t even thought himself capable of such a thing, but just as he was reflecting on a matter for the fledgling Order of the Phoenix, a figure had spoken to him from the wall of his office—from a painting of _himself_.

The portrait had informed him that an unusual and unexpected event was about to take place. A student from twenty years in the future would be appearing in this very room at some point that day, having discovered the _Desideria_ in his office at exactly the right—or wrong, as the case may be—time. Albus wondered exactly what events had transpired between then and now, that a Seventh Year student’s heart’s desire would be to travel twenty years into the past…

 

**Chapter One: _Time is on Your Side_**

Come here, oh my star is fading  
And I swerve out of control  
And I swear I waited and waited,  
I've got to get out of this hole

But time is on your side  
It's on your side now  
Not pushing you down and all around  
It's no cause for concern

Come on, oh my star is fading  
And I see no chance of release  
I know I'm dead on the surface  
But I am screaming underneath  
- _Amsterdam, Coldplay_

_December 20, 1997_

Hermione Granger was frustrated. If she admitted the truth, she was more frustrated by the fact that she wanted to _stop_ working on her essay than by the fact that she couldn’t think of anything else to write. For the first time in almost seven years, she actually felt like putting off her work until after the holidays. Of course, she couldn’t mention her dilemma to the others in the Gryffindor common room, or she’d be tormented and teased to within an inch of her life.

“Oh, give it up, Hermione,” called Ron from across the room. His words made Harry look away from the chessboard where they were engaged in a spirited game, leaving Ron enough time to make a spectacular move without his friend’s notice. Hermione saw the move and scowled—she hated it when Ron used teasing her as a distraction in his and Harry’s matches. The look had no effect on Ron, however—he just grinned and continued to pester her.

“You’ve been looking at the same spot on your parchment for the past ten minutes!”

“I thought you were playing chess,” she replied primly.

“It’s only Harry that needs to pay attention,” Ron said, earning himself a green-eyed glare that turned into a smack when Harry realized his queen was cornered.

“You know, _I_ don’t resort to cheap tricks to win chess games,” Harry said crossly.

“Yeah, well maybe you should try it,” Ron quipped.

“Don’t let him bait you, Harry,” Ginny said, perching herself on the edge of his chair. “He almost drove Percy mad—he hated to lose.”

“Speaking of distractions, can you please not do that around me?” Ron said in a pained voice, as Ginny consoled Harry with a kiss on the cheek.

“Get used to it,” she sassed back.

“Ginny, don’t antagonize Ron,” Hermione said, channeling Molly Weasley for a moment. She gave her essay a dark look and then packed up her things. It was (almost) Christmas, after all.

“Don’t bother, Hermione,” Ron said, pretending to ignore Ginny. “She was born to do it.”

“I thought I was born so mum could have a _girl_ to dress up instead of _you_ ,” Ginny said spiritedly. Ron shuddered, as did Harry.

“Now, there’s a thought to drown out all creativity,” Hermione observed, coming over to sit with them by the fire. “So,” she said brightly, “everyone finished with their Christmas shopping?” A chorus of groans answered her question.

“Don’t tell me you do _that_ weeks in advance, as well?” Ron said incredulously. Ginny looked at Hermione and rolled her eyes. Hermione sighed. She actually hated shopping, but she hated being unprepared even more.

“For your information Mr. Weasley, your brother’s fiancé dragged Ginny and I all through London two weeks ago to get everything ready for the holiday.”

“You went shopping with _Fleur_?” Harry shuddered. “I’m sorry.”

“It wasn’t that bad,” Hermione tried to say.

“Yes it was!” Ginny declared. “You don’t have to be _in_ the wedding, so you don’t have to be fussed over. She still wants me to be a _flower girl_ ,” she huffed. “I’m almost seventeen years old!”

“Fleur just wants this Christmas to be perfect—it is the first one since Bill was bitten,” Hermione offered.

“I wonder when the full moon is this month,” Harry mused.

“Last week, I checked.” Hermione sighed. “I do miss him as our Defense professor, though. Professor Snape is good, although-“ a fresh chorus of groans interrupted her.

“I had always thought he was so cross all the time because he couldn’t have the position he wanted, but…” Ron trailed off.

“That’s definitely _not_ it.” Harry was adamant.

“Anything’s better than Umbridge,” Ginny observed.

“I used to think so,” Harry said, darkly. “I don’t think he’s ever quite forgiven me for preventing him from getting his revenge on Sirius.” Harry’s voice was steady until it reached the name of his godfather, where it broke slightly. Hermione reached out and touched his shoulder comfortingly; none of them had really gotten over the loss of Sirius.

“Not like it mattered in the end,” Ron said in matching tones. “Snape sure does like to take house points from you, though.” 

“Oh, that reminds me,” Harry said, cheering slightly. His sudden movement dislodged Ginny from his chair and interrupted Hermione’s reflexive correction of, “ _Professor_ Snape, Ron.” The three of them watched as Harry tore up the stairs to the boys’ dormitory, taking them two or three at a time. They had barely enough time to look at each other in confusion before Harry returned with what looked like a book in his hands. He settled himself down on one of the couches behind them and placed the book on the table before him.

“Well,” Ron said as he got up to investigate, “it’s definitely not _Hogwarts, a History_.” This earned him a giggle from Ginny and a vexed look from Hermione.

“Not like you would know,” she said.

“Oh, I’d know.”

Hermione raised an eyebrow.

“You carry that thing with you everywhere,” he said, dancing out of the way as she slapped at him in disgust.

“Oh!” Ginny said, reminding them of why they’d begun arguing. “A scrapbook!”

It was the photo album that Hagrid had given Harry all those years ago. Hermione had seen it only a few times; looking at the images was understandably a bittersweet experience for her friend. She sat down on the couch next to Harry, glad for a chance to see his treasured pictures again.

“I’d nearly forgotten about this,” Ron said excitedly, kneeling to get a better look only to be kicked ‘accidentally’ by his sister, who had claimed the seat on Harry’s other side. He scowled at her only to back away as she made as if to retrieve her wand.

“Be glad you two don’t have siblings,” he said under his breath, nodding in the direction of the couch.

Ginny stuck out her tongue at him.

“The grass is always greener, Ronald,” Hermione said, thinking that Ron would probably have hated being an only child. “—Oh,” she said, looking back at the album. “How lovely!”

Harry had turned the page for them, revealing a large photo of his parents’ wedding. James was beaming and Lily looked radiant in her white dress, namesake flowers in her hair. The four of them spent the next few minutes exclaiming with pleasure at the sight of the almost-familiar faces of the wedding party and guests. Dumbledore looked very merry, as did a round-faced couple Hermione recognized as Neville’s parents. Alice Longbottom was holding her husband’s hand, and she wondered with a pang of sadness if the madness brought on by the Cruciatus curse had robbed Neville's mother of that simple pleasure. She hoped not. Edging closer to the scrapbook, Hermione met Harry’s eyes and recognized the same sort of melancholy in them. She guessed that he was probably thinking the same thing—would it ever be possible to enjoy these pictures without thinking of the fate that awaited their subjects?

“Well, speak of the devil,” Ginny said, pointing at Sirius in a casual way that Hermione discerned was intended to lighten the mood. “Is that firewhiskey?”

“Probably,” said Ron, “judging from the grin.”

They all laughed. Sirius did indeed look very happy; his dazzling smile and handsome features showed no inkling of the wasted, gaunt creature he was to become. Hermione shook her head, frustrated with herself. What ever was making her focus on the negative when she was looking at pictures of a wedding? On an impulse she asked Harry if the album had earlier snapshots of his parents—perhaps from their time at Hogwarts.

“Yeah, want me to start from the beginning?” Harry looked around at his friends, the slight smile he wore breaking into a grin—they looked as eager as first years. “All right, then.”

He flipped back to the first page of the album, making Hermione slightly dizzy, as the images scrolling past weren’t stationary like the ones in _her_ family album. The first photograph was of James, smiling toothily and waving at them from beneath the caption: ‘Prongs, the day he earned his nickname.’ He looked to be about fifteen.

“Oh, brilliant!” Harry exclaimed. “"I'd nearly forgotten about this one--it must be around the time they first managed their animagus transformations!”

“’Shame he can’t transfigure himself in the picture,” said Ron.

“Yeah, well, they have no way of knowing who is looking at the photographs, do they?” Hermione pointed out.

“Good point.”

“I’d have loved to see what it looked like, though,” Harry mused. They turned their attention to the next picture, which was slightly confusing at first. After they'd turned the book this way and that a few times (with Ron muttering crossly that someone had forgotten the caption), Ginny exclaimed, “Food fight!”

As soon as she said it, the picture’s participants began enthusiastically throwing everything within reach at anyone in sight, and a stylized caption appeared underneath.

‘HOGWARTS SCHOOL OF WITCHCRAFT AND WIZARDRY, FIRST ANNUAL GRYFFINDOR HALLOWEEN FOOD FASHION SHOW.’

The un-pictured Gryffindors howled with laughter as they watched their predecessors’ antics, particularly as a food-splattered Sirius Black and James Potter simultaneously tossed full pumpkin pies at each other. Sirius’ hit his mark, while Harry’s father missed terribly, hitting their Head of House—Minerva McGonagall. The scene faded away just as the look of horror on her face began to give way to anger. None of them were coherent enough to notice the enchanted page resetting itself for the next time it would reveal its secrets—all four of them were collapsed in hysterics.

“I’m beginning to see why they called themselves ‘Marauders,’” Hermione gasped out.

“Can’t…breathe…” choked Ron.

“That was great,” Harry agreed. Ginny just nodded, holding her stomach with a pleased but pained expression.

“You know,” Ron managed, “it’s a shame it’s too late to carry on that particular tradition…” The boys beamed at each other as the girls rolled their eyes.

“I doubt McGonagall’d let either of you near a pie, judging by the look on her face just then,” Ginny said.

“Too right,” Ron agreed.

“I don’t even want to think about how many house points _that_ cost them,” Harry said, and they all shuddered.

The next page earned excited whoops of pleasure from Harry, Ron, and Ginny—it was designed to look like a Quidditch player card, featuring James in a spectacular photo apparently taken just as he scored a goal. The caption read:

‘JAMES POTTER  
CHASER  
QUIDDITCH CAPTAIN  
GRYFFINDOR’ 

The letters flashed red and gold, and Hermione admired the expert charm work, albeit privately. She wasn’t as keen on Quidditch as her companions, although she did enjoy watching the matches. She knew them well enough to know that complimenting a charm on the page would probably start a row, particularly when confronted by equally expert flying—James Potter was indeed amazing, as Professor McGonagall had once remarked.

“Great Merlin!” Ron remarked, “I wonder how long it took them to get that picture?”

“It does seem to have been taken at an odd angle,” Ginny noticed. They all looked more closely at the setting of the picture, although it was hard not to watch James executing an amazing loop around the Hufflepuff Keeper to score.

“You know, now that you mention it, I don’t recall there being an observation tower with that view,” Hermione said thoughtfully.

“Not unless the Quidditch pitch has changed a lot since then,” Harry agreed. He broke into a wide smile. “I think I’ll ask Professor Lupin about this—there’s bound to be a pretty good story behind it.”

“Yeah, knowing them,” Ron grinned.

“There’s no picture on the opposite page,” Hermione said.

“Well, not even photographs want to be outdone,” Harry said with annoying superiority. Hermione suppressed a sigh—she just didn’t understand their fascination with Quidditch.

The next batch of photos was pretty tame (Hermione groaned at her mental pun, considering the subjects of the pictures were animagi), showing James, Sirius, Lupin, and Pettigrew in various familiar scenes about the school. Each time Wormtail’s face appeared, Hermione felt herself flinch, almost as if she expected the representation of the man to reach out and harm her from the confines of his frame.

“You know,” Ginny said, her gaze lingering on the four young men in grinning camaraderie, “time really wasn’t on their side, was it?” They all looked at her, and Hermione thought to herself that what the youngest Weasley had said was an almost poetic way to look at it—and the bitter truth. It just… was, she thought, in a way that wasn’t judging, or even tragedic.

“I wonder,” she said, looking at her three closest friends, “if it is on ours.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys. I had a human baby in 2009 and put this written baby of mine to bed for all the time in between, but I have never forgotten how much I love it. I have a mammoth file of outlines and even some future (after she returns to her own time) chapters written, and I know what happens in this, so have faith! I'm also planning to edit this to tighten the writing in a few places, so don't be freaked out if you've read it before elsewhere and it's slightly different here. This is the 'story home' now, because AO3 is teh bestest.


	2. Those Who Mourn

"Blessed are those who mourn for they shall be comforted.''  
- _Matthew 5:4, The Bible_

Ginny’s unique observation hung over them, not uncomfortably, but coloring the mood more soberly as they resumed their exploration of Harry’s photo album. It now felt like less of an amusing activity, and more like a journey they were taking together. Hermione watched the redhead as she reached over to turn the page, her hand touching Harry’s quickly in a comforting gesture. She smiled at her friend’s perceptiveness—if the sight of Peter was painful to them, it must be excruciating to Harry, even more so to see the trusting looks on the faces of the photographs’ other inhabitants. The next image wasn’t Pettigrew, however, it was Black.

The caption read, ‘Happy birthday, Padfoot.’ Judging from the look of joy on his face, Sirius was quite fond of birthdays. The four of them fell silent as they regarded the picture of Harry’s godfather. This particular snapshot seemed different from the others, but Hermione couldn’t quite put her finger on the reason. 

“He looks…calm,” Harry said doubtfully, but Hermione nodded at him.

“He is rather…manic, in most of his pictures, isn’t he?” she said. Calm, she thought. That wasn’t it, though—not exactly. Perhaps ‘manic’ wasn’t quite the word, either. Sirius Black as a young man seemed—or as accurate as his photographs could portray—to consider standing still a waste of energy. Yet, in this one, he hadn’t moved from the bench on which he was seated, nor had he looked in any other direction, always slightly to the left and over the photographer’s shoulder. Then it hit her, right as Ginny spoke—his usual energy wasn’t being spent in motion, it was spent on whoever he was looking at.

“I think he’s looking at someone,” Ginny said slowly.

“Yeah,” Ron agreed.

“I never even thought about that,” Harry said sadly, making them all look at him curiously. All except Hermione, who thought she could guess where he was going with this. “That Sirius might have someone…someone like my mum,” he stopped. The implications of that thought drew almost all of the previous cheer out of their conversation, leaving behind an uncomfortable silence that none of them seemed willing to break, Gryffindor bravery notwithstanding.

Hermione gave the picture of Sirius one last look, surprising herself by deciding that it was, by far, her favorite image of him, for all that it seemed out of character. She then leaned over and firmly turned the page, revealing—thankfully—a mischievous trio covered in snow from head to foot. She felt Harry let out his breath slowly, from beside her, and nudged him with her shoulder playfully.

“Look familiar?” she said, purposefully keeping her tone light.

“Not quite—the girl in this one seems to still be visible through the snow,” he retorted, pleasing her by remembering the violent snowball fight the two of them and Ron had had, last year.

“Your dad and Lupin do look awfully pleased with themselves,” Ron said, laughing as the young men high-fived each other. Lily looked completely soaked, but happy.

“It’s not quite accurate, though,” remarked Ginny, putting her arm around Harry in defiance of Ron’s narrowed eyes. “Wait—” she broke off as a disembodied snowball came from somewhere out of sight, and knocked James’ glasses clean off of his face. “ _Now_ , it’s accurate.” They all laughed. Ginny’s well-aimed snowball had indeed knocked Harry’s glasses off, for which he had thoroughly revenged himself by dunking her in the almost frozen lake, and earning them both detention. From the looks on their faces, then and now, Hermione knew they thought it had been worth it.

“Thank you!” Ginny stood up and made a little bow. “This has been Ginny Weasley, playing the part of Sirius Black.”

The name having been spoken so soon after they’d all unconsciously agreed not to talk about him didn’t hurt as much as she’d thought it would, Hermione was surprised to discover. It did, however, bring with it a reminder.

“It’ll be his birthday tomorrow,” she said, sadly.

“If Kreacher says _anything_ about him, I’ll order him to sleep in the fireplace for a month,” said Harry, fiercely.

“Oh, Harry.” Hermione couldn’t let this one pass—even if the old elf was a grouch, and slightly batty, he couldn’t help where his loyalties lay. After all, he’d spent most of his life being fed lies by Mrs. Black.

“Good night, dears,” Ginny said in a voice that sounded an awful lot like her mother’s when she was handing out an ultimatum. Hermione was impressed; the youngest Weasley had managed to shut both she and Harry up with not much more than an endearment. She supposed the other girl had had a lot of practice. Ron swallowed a deep yawn from the floor at their feet, muttered a little bit, and pulled himself up stiffly.

“I’m off, as well,” he said, wincing as he discovered the painful fact that his right leg had fallen asleep. Hermione couldn’t suppress a small smile as he stumped off to his room, giving an unconscious but fair impression of Mad-Eye Moody. She got up as well, squeezing Harry’s shoulder reassuringly before turning her back on he and Ginny to give them some privacy. She would have to do a quick turn around the hallways that led to each house dormitory, as part of her Head Girl responsibilities.

=====

The Fat Lady was still quietly snoring when she returned, and Hermione felt bad to wake her. Luckily she was simply yawned through the portrait hole, only to find Harry still seated on the couch, Ginny apparently having made good on her decision to head off to sleep.

“We didn’t make it worse, did we?” she asked, perceptively.

“Not really,” he said, offering a small smile. “It’s comforting to know I wasn’t the only one to miss him—them,” he corrected.

“It’s only natural-“ she started, but he waved her off.

“I know.”

“No,” she said earnestly. “They were _your_ parents—he was _your_ godfather.” She stopped, not wanting to embarrass Harry, but hoping he’d understand her all the same. He did.

“Thanks.”

Hermione permitted herself a rare luxury.

“You’re allowed to be selfish, Harry,” she said, meeting his eyes with a mix of laughter and indignation— “Even if Snape seems to think you’re just out for attention and that you act like it all the time.” Harry looked shocked for a split second, and then grinned, like she’d hoped he would.

“ _Professor_ Snape.”

“Sod off,” she snapped, trying to shock him. 

“Good night, Hermione,” he said, subtly letting her know that he wished to be alone even as he smiled his thanks for her helping lift his spirits. “Sweet dreams!” he called out to her as she reached the stairway to the girls’ dormitory.

 _As long as they’re not about being massacred by snowballs_ , she thought, _they will be_.

If she’d stuck around a few minutes longer, she’d have seen Harry flip idly through the album one last time, stopping at one photo and staring at it incredulously for a long moment before shaking his head, rubbing his eyes, and muttering to himself that he was seeing things.

=====

Hermione wasn’t surprised when neither Ron nor Harry showed up for breakfast next morning. She’d long since discovered that they both thought it was a sacrilege to get up early during the holidays. She’d always thought it was a treat, actually; getting up with no pressing obligations for the day meant she could spend more time doing whatever she wanted. This reminded her of what she planned to do today, and she finished her breakfast quickly, anxious to begin.

Four hours later, she was surrounded by books in the library when she heard muffled bickering from two very familiar voices approaching her.

“It’s not _my_ fault it was windy today!”

“Well, you took off with it before I could cast a charm to make sure it stayed put!” The voices were silent for a short time, during which she could hear their approaching footsteps.

“I didn’t even think of that,” Ron admitted.

“Hermione isn’t the only one who—“ A very angry sounding Madam Pince interrupted Harry’s loud retort, and Hermione had to smother a giggle when she imagined the look of outrage on the librarian’s face. Pince absolutely hated any commotion in her library. She stood up, hoping that her two friends would see her and leave off any more arguing before they got kicked out entirely. Ron spotted her immediately and abandoned Harry, who was left to make their apologies to Madam Pince.

“Thought you’d be in here,” he said, knowingly. “Any luck?” Hermione didn’t have to ask ‘with what;’ they all knew each other pretty well by now.

“For all the Quidditch fanatics that go to this school, there’s an amazing lack of pictures of them,” she said, disgustedly.

“Don’t worry, we think we’ve figured it out,” Ron said, gesturing to himself and Harry, who had just returned from his dressing-down by the school librarian.

“You did?” she asked him.

“Yeah—well, the general idea,” Harry said, with a sideways look at Ron. Hermione groaned inwardly—those two seemed to have such an amazing talent for trouble, much like the subject of the picture they were trying to figure out.

“…invisibility cloak,” Ron was saying.

“I never thought of that,” Hermione realized. It made sense, though. No one was allowed on broomsticks near the pitch during a game besides the players and the referee, but it wasn’t enforced by charms or anything. She started to pack up the books she’d gotten out, looking up at the boys when she realized they’d fallen silent.

Both Harry and Ron looked as if they’d just gotten a perfect score on their N.E.W.T.s. Hermione rolled her eyes.

“Honestly, I never said I was _perfect_ ,” she said, slamming one of the books particularly hard against the table when Ron gasped at her. “Help me pack these up.” She would just have to ignore them.

“Hang on a moment,” Harry said, lifting one of the thinner books from the stack she’d not gotten to yet. “This is from their year.”

“Which?” Ron asked, coming over to investigate.

“Seventh.”

Harry opened the book on the table, the three of them crowding around it excitedly. It wasn’t quite the same format as a yearbook, but had pictures of the students and faculty, complete with descriptions and captions. As they paged through it, Hermione wondered at the similarity between this and the night before—it was as if fate was leading them to discover something, or… _Ugh_. She hated Divination, or anything that hinted of the Hand of Fate, or other such nonsense. Hermione would admit that Seers existed—after all, Professor Trelawney had proved that fact already—but she put her foot down at seeing signs and portents in her everyday life. She put those silly thoughts firmly from her mind, and tried to pay attention to what Harry was now talking about.

“See?” He was pointing at one of the moving pictures and grinning broadly. It looked posed—as posed as a wizarding picture could be—and showed James Potter on his broomstick, hand outstretched toward a tiny golden winged ball, with Sirius Black holding the end of the broom, laughingly preventing Harry’s father from his goal. The caption read, ‘Inseparable.’ As they watched, beaming, a broom handle appeared from out of frame and poked Sirius, causing him to let go; the next moment he was tackled by a lean looking Remus Lupin. The scene was happy and familiar looking; it could have been a picture of their antics at The Burrow, but with different subjects. They checked the section title, which appeared to be ‘Seventh Year Fun.’

Before they could investigate the book further, a silky voice behind them made all three of them start in surprise. It was Professor Snape.

“ _Must_ you displace half of the library mere hours before you’re to leave for the holidays?” He frowned at Hermione and the many stacks of books she’d pulled from the shelves in her search for a picture of the Quidditch pitch of twenty years ago.

“We were just putting them back, sir,” she said respectfully.

“See that you do.” With that, he swept away in a cloud of black robes.

“Quick, let’s see if there are any pictures of His Greasiness in here,” Ron said, grabbing at the now closed memory book on the table. Hermione considered trying to chastise Ron for his disrespect, but Harry interrupted her before she even began.

“Much as I’d like to, if he comes back and says something about my dad or Sirius I would probably do something that would lose us about a thousand house points.”

“He’s right, too—we’ll need to be in the Headmaster’s office fairly soon,” Hermione said. Replacing all of the books went much quicker with two extra pairs of hands. As they entered the portrait hole after a quick ‘Oh Tannenbaum’ to the Fat Lady, Harry said something about checking to see if ‘it’ was dried off yet, and headed up to their room. Hermione looked at Ron quizzically. 

“Well, when we got down there, I sort of…grabbed the cloak and flew off.” Ron looked sheepish. “It was windy, and Harry didn’t get a chance to perform any kind of sticking charm, so the cloak blew off me—“

“And into the lake,” she finished for him. He nodded. “You two sound as bad as James and Sirius,” she scolded, but this just made the redhead swell with pride as he dashed off to join Harry. “That wasn’t a compliment!” she yelled after him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From this point, I'm allowing the update date to show as 2017, even though I could fabricate the dates to follow the original posting schedule in 2006. So that'll be weird, sorry :)


	3. Through the Looking Glass

Children three that nestle near,  
Eager eye and willing ear  
Pleased a simple tale to hear—

Long has paled that sunny sky:  
Echoes fade and memories die:  
Autumn frosts have slain July.  
- _Epilogue to 'Through the Looking Glass' by Lewis Carroll_

 

The halls were mostly empty as Hermione levitated her trunk beside her on the way to Dumbledore’s office an hour or so later. She was still a bit early, and thus hadn’t bothered to call up to Harry or Ron, as both of them always postponed their packing until the very last minute. Ginny wasn’t in Gryffindor tower, either, but when she’d checked, Hermione had found that her friend had her travel things lined up on her bed, ready to go. At least Mrs. Weasley’s constant pestering of her children had had an effect on one of them. Two, if you counted Percy.

The thought of the Weasleys' estranged son made her sigh. As practical as she was, Hermione secretly hated change. She guessed it was childish of her to wish that everyone around her could stay the same as she grew up—but then, where would one draw the line? She’d been happy enough in second year—until she’d been petrified, that was—but pause time there, and they’d never have the pleasure of Professor Lupin as their DADA teacher. She’d loved finding out how she’d done on her O.W.L.s…but that had been after Sirius had fallen through the veil. She was well pleased at having been chosen as Head Girl, but what if something happened next month that she’d have been ecstatic about, if only she hadn’t tried to freeze everything just the way it was…

Hermione decided that she wasn’t very good at being fanciful. Understanding this the very moment she arrived at Dumbledore’s office struck her as fairly ironic, considering their Headmaster’s disposition. Stacking her luggage against the wall nearby, she turned to search for a comfortable chair in which to wait for the others, only to find that the stairway leading up to the office was accessible. She looked around, but Professor Dumbledore was nowhere to be seen; there wasn’t anyone anywhere in sight. Harry’s tales of what he had seen in the office came back to her, along with a very unusual desire to go exploring. Hermione tried to brush it off, and settled herself on a bench facing the stairs, expecting at any moment to see the stone gargoyle that normally guarded it curve into view, blocking the path to the office.

The longer she sat there, the more curious she became. It made her think of Alice in Wonderland, and the consequences of snooping around where one didn’t belong. Each time she felt the urge to stand up and investigate the stairway and what lay beyond it, she countered herself by trying to remember all the horrible things that had happened to Alice. The problem was, as the minutes ticked away, she started thinking more about the girl’s adventures than her brushes with danger. Her father had read Lewis Carroll to her as a child—much to her mother’s disapproval; her mother disliked the author’s morbid sense of humor. She’d loved _Through the Looking Glass_ , and been reminded of it greatly when she, Ron, and Harry had played full-sized Wizard’s Chess during their first year. 

When she had been younger—before she’d made the wonderful discovery that not only was magic _real_ , but she, Hermione Granger, was uncommonly talented at it—she used to imagine what sort of world she would find, if she, like Alice, got a chance to go through a looking glass. She couldn’t help the broad grin that covered her face. It was something she hadn’t thought of since years before she came to Hogwarts, and her child-like fantasies had…well—they’d come true, hadn’t they? Dragons, leprechauns, magic spells, and even people who turned into animals—all were reality to her now.

 _Animagi_ … She’d been fascinated by the idea long before the frightening experience she, Ron, and Harry had shared in the shrieking shack. _Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, and Prongs_. Hermione considered herself one of the most gifted in magic among her peers, but even she wouldn’t dream of attempting to become an animagus. That Professor Lupin’s three closest friends all decided to try it, out of caring for him— _and, let’s face it_ , she thought wryly, _a strong sense of adventure_ —was awe-inspiring.

Her eyes were drawn back to that empty curving staircase again, almost as if there were a sign above the opening reading, ‘GO ON, YOU KNOW YOU WANT TO.’ She tried to ignore it, turning her thoughts instead back to ‘the Marauders’ and their antics. This proved to be the wrong choice, because her imagination ran away with her, providing an annoying little voice in the back of her head that goaded her to give up and sneak into Dumbledore’s office. ‘Well, are you a Gryffindor, or aren’t you?’ it taunted. This was the same vicious little influence that told her she enjoyed all the rule-breaking and mayhem she experienced when she accompanied Ron and Harry ‘to protect them from themselves.’ 

She supposed she really _was_ a tried-and-true Gryffindor, because she couldn’t seem to stop herself from getting up and crossing the room, after ‘Looks like you should have been in Ravenclaw, after all,’ echoed in her head. If she’d been placed there, she probably never would have become such close friends with Harry and Ron—and Ron’s wild family—and, Merlin help her, she really _did_ enjoy all the crazy things they’d done over the years, Head Girl or not.

“Hang it all,” she muttered, and with a thrill of excitement, she started up the stone stairway to the unfamiliar room beyond, partly to answer her unasked question of what she’d find behind _her_ looking glass, now that her childlike imaginings of magic had been fulfilled.

Her first impression was that it was decorated in exactly the way she’d pictured it in her mind. Crowded, yet homey, and in no way pretentious, even with the portraits of former Headmasters of Hogwarts slumbering peacefully on the walls. It was just like Dumbledore to make himself comfortable here, rather than decorate it as befitting someone with immense power over the young minds and future leaders of the British wizarding community. Which meant, she realized, that he was probably the perfect choice of Headmaster, not that she’d ever argue with that. As well as being immensely powerful, Albus Dumbledore was a kind man, full of the eccentricities that put children at their ease.

Hermione stood at the top of the stairway for a long time, just drinking in the sights and sounds of the room in front of her. Some things she recognized, either by personal experience or Harry’s descriptions: Fawkes’ cage stood behind the large desk, the smoldering pile of feathers and faint chirping sounds telling Hermione that she’d missed the phoenix’s rebirth by no more than twenty-four hours. High on a shelving unit full of oddities lay the Sorting Hat; she watched it intently for a few minutes, looking for any signs of life. Harry had mentioned it speaking to him, after all. It looked to be resting, or whatever Sorting Hats did while not on duty.

The chair behind the humongous wooden desk looked quite comfortable, but although Hermione was possessed of an impish and inquisitive nature just now, she couldn’t quite force herself to try it out. She did peep at the opposite side of the desk, however, finding an impressive number of drawers. It brought to mind the story Harry had told her of the Weasley twins’ discovery of the Marauder’s Map, and made her wonder what strange and wonderful artifacts Professor Dumbledore would keep in his many drawers.

Hermione was surprised that the plentiful distractions of this room had made her completely forget that she absolutely should _not_ be in here. She supposed that rule breaking could possibly be habit forming, and, as she thought about it, became convinced that if anyone would know, it would be James Potter and Sirius Black. The thought of the two Gryffindor scamps gave her the courage to start examining various objects of interest in the room. If she, Hermione, couldn’t get up the nerve to look around thoroughly, the thought of what the two intrepid young men would have done in her place gave her the needed daring.

She first approached what looked like a fish tank sitting on a tall marble stand under the window. Having assumed there would be fish inside, Hermione was disappointed when it looked empty. When she moved to the left and looked through the side of the tank, though, she was shocked to see an entire school of fish! This didn’t any sense at all…and continued not to, as the fish persisted in disappearing when she viewed the tank from the front or back, only to reappear when she looked in either of the sides. She narrowed her eyes and stared at them for quite a long time until one of them seemed to blink out of sight for a moment and it hit her—were they two-dimensional? She decided she didn’t want to know; the image of magic and Muggle science combined were enough to give even the most dedicated researcher a headache.

The next item to catch her eye looked quite ancient, and she wondered if Harry’s father had ever snuck into the room to stare covetously at it. The writing on the handle read ‘Cloudstalker’ in elegant calligraphy, and the broom itself looked to be hundreds of years old. A horrifying thought struck her, and she dismissed it immediately—as lax as James Potter might have been about rules, she was certain he would never risk the destruction of such an amazing item by actually flying around on it, even in the confines of the office… She went from thinking with trepidation about ‘Prongs,’ to affection about ‘Moony.’ 

Her former professor was undoubtedly the reason for _this_ handsome mechanism. She was looking at what would have been called a projection by Muggles, although she was fairly sure that the magical version worked in a very different way. This image of the soon-to-be night sky was a lot more real looking than a simple projection could ever have been. A cloud drifted over the waning moon, casting a tiny shadow on the polished wooden surface of the bookshelf it rested on. She wondered how much it had cost in Wizard money—it was quite relaxing to watch, so much so that she’d love to have one for herself. Thinking of Professor Lupin made her wonder if the peacefulness she had always felt when looking at the moon was the complete opposite for him. _It probably is_ , she thought, _unless he associated the coming of the full moon with the adventures he had with his best friends_ …

Hermione was suddenly struck with a desire to have known Lupin and his childhood friends during their time at Hogwarts. Such glimpses and snippets of stories about them as she had seen and heard made each of them sound like the sort of people that never lacked for something interesting and unique to do. Not only that, but they’d also been uncommonly clever, and she’d love to learn some of the more unorthodox charms and such that Professor Lupin as an adult wouldn’t dream of teaching them. Sort of like an advanced DA club for the Mischievously Impaired.

She hadn’t eaten any of the sweets in this room, but Hermione felt almost certain that the atmosphere here was starting to affect her thinking.

She turned to look behind her and was mildly shocked to see a full-length mirror, something she was _sure_ hadn’t been there when she first entered the room. She advanced toward it cautiously, remembering stories about magical mirrors. Her imagination was already running wild with all the fanciful things around her—but she ended up standing in front of it with nothing more frightening than her reflection staring back at her. Hermione shook her head in near-disgust—she couldn’t believe she’d allowed herself to get so caught up in the mood of the room and the excitement of rule-breaking (for this she blamed the memories of the Marauders) that she started being afraid of a simple mirror.

As a long-standing habit, she reached out a hand to touch the cool surface of the glass. She’d always told herself that she would regret not doing this, just in case the one time she hadn’t was the one time she could have entered Alice’s world and had some grand adventure. This thought froze in her brain as she registered the fact that her hand had continued on _past_ the supposed surface of the looking glass into the space beyond…


	4. The Headmaster's Office ((Part II))

Part II: Stay Close to Me While the Sky is Falling

The world's on fire  
It's more than I can handle  
Tap into the water, try to bring my share  
Try to bring more, more than I can handle  
Bring it to the table  
Bring what I am able

I watch the heavens but I find no calling  
Something I can do to change what's coming  
Stay close to me while the sky is falling  
Don't wanna be left alone  
Don't wanna be alone  
- _World on Fire, Sarah Mclachlan_

 

**Chapter Four: _The Headmaster’s Office_**

“Curiosity is not a sin.... But we should exercise caution with our curiosity... yes, indeed.”  
- _Albus Dumbledore, Goblet of Fire_

 

_September, 1977_

Habit had compelled her to reach out in the first place, but she wasn’t quite sure what had made her complete the insane act of actually stepping _through_ the looking glass into the room beyond. As she did just that, Hermione thought to herself that it only made sense. If magic was real, and she was a witch—capable of turning porcupines into pincushions and conjuring the light of the sun—what was so extraordinary about taking a stroll through a solid piece of glass? 

Hermione opened her eyes, having closed them in a defensive reflex. The room in which she stood was…exactly the same as the one she’d left.

“So much for that,” she thought, speaking it aloud without realizing it.

“I wouldn’t be too disappointed yet, Miss Granger,” said a familiar voice. Hermione turned to face Albus Dumbledore.

She held her head high, refusing to become a coward at the very moment her rule breaking was discovered—but something very different from fear made her confidence waver. The room had looked the same, but now that she saw it more clearly, there were marked differences—the greatest of these being Dumbledore himself. He looked…younger, for one thing. For another, his beard was actually _longer_ than it had been when she’d last seen him…

“Of all the things to stare at in my office, you’ve chosen my beard?”

“I…” _Call Guinness_ , she thought to herself, _Hermione Granger is finally speechless_. She wondered irrationally if wizardkind had a record book.

“Please, sit down,” he said, gesturing to a high-backed velvet contraption that faced his desk. Hermione felt slightly sick—she was _sure_ she’d have remembered a chair like that. Exactly what had she gotten herself into? “It’s only a chair,” the Headmaster assured her. Without anything coherent to say, Hermione sat, but her eyes continued to mark the subtle differences from the room she’d… _left_? minutes before. She felt very disoriented—and Dumbledore wasn’t helping:

“I have instructed myself to tell you that I will take good care of you, until such time as you are returned to me,” he said with a completely straight face. Hermione gave up trying to make sense of her situation and just stared. “Ah,” he said, noting her lost expression, “I see that had the desired effect. You are, I take it, completely at a loss to understand your situation?” She nodded. “That is as good a place to start as any,” he said, cryptically. “Particularly because, until a few moments ago, I would have been just as befuddled as you are.”

Confusion gave way to curiosity once more, and, spying a dish of lemon drops on the desk corner nearest her, she reached for one and looked up for approval. He nodded, took one for himself as well, and gestured to what looked like a stone bowl with runic carvings on it, sitting on a low table near to Fawkes’ cage. The light emanating from the liquid substance within told her that he older man had most likely been using his pensieve not long ago.

“Do you recognize that device, Miss Granger?”

“I’ve had one described to me, sir,” she said cautiously. He nodded at her approvingly and took another lemon drop.

“An extraordinary thing happened to me while using it, a few minutes before you arrived.” Hermione felt she had to say something, here.

“But—no one was in the room, when I—“

“Don’t worry, I’m getting to that,” he waved her off. “During my inspection of a memory of ten years ago, I was interrupted quite rudely by—“ here, he leaned forward and looked at her intently, “myself.”

She looked at him rather blankly, owing to the fact that it was quite normal to encounter oneself when exploring one’s own memories. His odd statement earlier about his ‘taking care’ of her until she was ‘returned’ to him came swiftly to her mind, and her eyebrows furrowed slightly as she looked at him. The expression on the renowned wizard’s face all but told her to pursue this line of thought to the logical conclusion.

“You…have the ability to talk to your own memories?” she asked, her voice hardly over a whisper. The power implied in such an action…

“Yes indeed,” he said, bowing his head slightly in response to the awe in her voice. Another, more extreme thought came to her as he was still nodding from her first comment.

“That would mean that—that this has already become a memory,” she said, struggling with the absurdity of what she was thinking. “Professor, you’re not telling me that the mirror is a Time Turner?”

“No, my dear, it is not. It is something else entirely,” Dumbledore said, turning away from her so abruptly that she suspected that there was more to her current situation than he was willing to share with her. 

“But—I have gone back in time?” she asked, flushing slightly at what she considered to be a childish desire to hear her suspicion confirmed.

“You have.”

“How far—“

“I will come to that in a moment,” he said, silencing her with a stern, but not unkindly look. She turned her attention to the window of the study, hoping to see some indication of the time of day or the weather outside and thus make a calculation of how many hours ( _or even days_! she thought, excitedly. _I could catch up on all my History of Magic reading_!) she’d traveled. However, the location of the Headmaster’s office was too high up to give anything more than a view of a rather splendid sunset.

“The nature of your presence here is somewhat delicate,” said the older wizard finally. “As you know, Time Turners are fairly rare, and cannot transport their users forward.”

“But—I can just stay here, can’t I?” she asked, misunderstanding the reason for his behavior. “I mean, just until I’ve caught up?”  
“That would be quite out of the question, Miss Granger,” he said, seriously. “We will have to send you back.” Hermione pushed herself to her feet, wanting to pace around as she usually did when facing a puzzle or an episode of strong emotion. It always comforted her, made it easier to think.

“You just said that would be impossible,” she said, confused.

“Impossible by Time Turner, yes, but not completely impossible—I hope.”

Dumbledore’s behavior was simply baffling to her. It wasn’t even her current predicament that seemed so worrisome—it was that…for once, the venerable old wizard didn’t seem to have all the answers. She stopped pacing to stand before his desk again, more than a little bit exasperated.

“But, sir—I don’t see the problem…I mean, it shouldn’t be all that much trouble just to have me stay out of sight? If it’s only for a couple of—“

“Twenty years, Miss Granger.”

She sank into her chair, glad that she was already standing in front of it or she might have collapsed to the floor. _Twenty years_?! That was…impossible. He must be trying to test her, to stop her from indulging in the kinds of wild fancies that had gotten her into this mess in the first place.

“You’re joking.”

“No, I’m afraid I am not.” The fact that he looked at her almost pityingly instead of comfortingly made her more than a little uneasy. It was her own fault, though—a powerful wizard like Albus Dumbledore had the right to have whatever he wanted in his office, and it had been completely unforgivable for her to go snooping around in it as if she were some bumbling first year.

“You have a—“ her brain supplied the term ‘time machine,’ but she dismissed the term as ‘too Muggle.’ Besides, a machine brought to mind gears and moving parts, and the mirror she’d stepped through had had none of those. “Time-Traveling mirror in your office?” Her mind raced with all the possibilities…

“No, I do not,” was his reply, seemingly contradicting the night’s events. “In fact,” he was saying now, “I can safely tell you that that particular mirror has never before been seen in my office.” She looked at him doubtfully. Dumbledore leaned forward, an expression of intense interest in his eyes as he spoke again. “Tell me, young lady—it wasn’t, by any chance, the twenty-first of December—“

Hermione gasped.

“I can tell that you are full of questions, Miss Granger—and I would love to be able to answer them for you,” he said, looking regretful, “but I can say without hesitation that that kind of knowledge would do nothing but harm your best chance of getting back to where you came from.”

 _Great_ , she thought to herself, _all that little speech did was make me more curious_. She also gathered, from his tone, that ‘getting her back where she came from’ wasn’t going to be as forthcoming as saying a spell and popping her twenty years forward in time. She cast a glance behind her and saw with a sinking feeling that the vehicle through which she’d arrived had disappeared from behind them, as they talked. She leapt to her feet, horrified.

“It’s gone!”

“It was never really here,” Dumbledore said with an enigmatic smile. “Only you took the journey.”

Hermione resumed her pacing, her mind awash with worry as she brainstormed silently for solutions, each more ridiculous than the last.

“What are we going to do?” she asked, wringing her hands in distress.

“Have tea, I think.” The Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry said a quick spell and conjured up a lavish silver tea set, complete with steaming teapot and a plate piled high with sweets. Then, with a gentle look in his eyes, he walked over to her and drew her over to the ridiculous looking chair, sat her down, and handed her a cup. She was halfway through a chocolate-covered biscuit before she’d realized he’d cleverly manipulated her into calming down. She lifted her gaze to see him looking at her with the slightest twinkle of amusement in his eyes, as if he knew she’d guessed his motives and was waiting for her to say something, which she did, not to be deterred.

“What are we going to do, sir?” she asked more calmly, hoping that he had an answer.

“I am fairly convinced that I can send you back the same way you arrived,” came the unexpected answer. “But—“ and he held up a hand to stop her excited reaction, “I am afraid that the particular…artifact…only works its magic during a solstice.” She set her teacup down hurriedly and jumped to her feet, moving to the corner of the room where she had recalled the mirror standing. There wasn’t anything on the oriental carpet she’d remembered stepping out onto, nothing but blank space and bookshelves. A quick glance behind her told her that Dumbledore was still seated at his desk, the slightly apologetic look reappearing on his face.

“It’s September, Hermione,” he said, shocking her. “In just about twenty-four hours, the train will be bringing this year’s students for their first day of school.”

=====

Hermione awoke as she normally did, with the light of the sun falling on her face from the window. She realized almost at once that something was wrong, however—the light was coming from the wrong direction. Her eyes traced around the room as her sleep fogged brain tried to recall the circumstances that had brought her to the strange bed. The memory of Dumbledore’s strange pronouncement came back to her suddenly, and she was wide-awake at once.  
What in _Merlin’s name_ was she going to do? If it really _was_ September, as he’d told her the night before—and he’d had no reason to lie about something like that, given her reaction—she had at least four months until whatever magical means she’d used to come here was available again. And even then it might not work; she’d gathered that from his tone of voice.

She sat up carefully, distracted by the myriad possibilities and problems inherent in her situation. She seemed to be missing something—something important… _ohhhh_! The last vestiges of sleep fled from her as her mind supplied the important connection she’d missed last night. If she had gone back exactly twenty years, and Harry had been born roughly seventeen years ago, that meant she had arrived at Hogwarts at the beginning of his parents’ seventh year. Professor Lupin’s seventh year…Sirius Black’s seventh year— _Peter Pettigrew’s_ seventh year.

 _Oh, god_.

To think, last night she’d been confused by Professor Dumbledore’s seeming haste to send her back where she’d come from! Although the more she thought about it, as she paced on the rug in front of the bed she’d slept in last night, the worse her feeling of dread intensified. For Dumbledore would never have risked his own future by meddling in the past, and that meant he was in all likelihood completely ignorant of the doom that threatened to destroy the lives of the only people she cared about in this time period.

Considering who else’s (albeit temporary) doom it was, and exactly how it would come to pass, Hermione knew she couldn’t tamper with anything either. She resolved to speak to Dumbledore as soon as she could; she’d simply have to be sent away somewhere secluded and safe until the winter solstice.

As if her thoughts had summoned him, she heard a discreet knock on the guest room door, and the voice of the Headmaster asking for permission to enter. It was granted. Before he’d even had a chance to greet her, however, Hermione had started speaking in a strained voice.

“Professor, I simply _can’t_ stay here for four months!” She opened her mouth to continue, but he lifted a hand to stop her, his eyes conveying a wearied sort of censure.

“I had hoped that a good night’s sleep would have calmed you somewhat,” he said.

“It did, but then I started to think about the whole situation—“

“And worked yourself up again.” She nodded.

“The problem is, sir…well—I know what’s going to _happen_ ,” she said, remembering at the last moment to try to keep the miserable tone from her voice. It wouldn’t do to even _imply_ that the future wasn’t bright; the implications of what a mere tone of voice could do sent her into a renewed frenzy. “You’ve simply _got_ to send me back, or away somewhere where I can’t change things!”

“Sit down, please, Miss Granger,” he said in an infuriatingly calm voice. _Wasn’t he listening_? She sat at the very edge of the mattress, her hands twisting in her lap anxiously. “I’m afraid my resources aren’t equal to the task of hiding a seventeen year old girl for four months,” he said, pinning her in place with a stern gaze when she looked as if she wanted to interrupt him. “Nor would the questions that would arise from such a drastic action be prudent. You are in your seventh term at Hogwarts—no matter what the year—and you are much more comfortable here than anywhere else.”

Her heart sank as she started to understand his intent. Surely he didn’t mean for her to take up classes as if she belonged here?

“But, sir! I could change things by my simply being here—not to mention what I could accidentally let slip—“

“Time is not something to be taken lightly, but it is also not a completely passive thing, Miss Granger.” She stared at him, confused; on examining her lost expression, he surprised her completely by coming to a half-kneel in front of her, taking her hands, and saying, earnestly, “it may very well be that you are meant to be here, Hermione.”


	5. I Will Tell You Where You Ought To Be

Oh, know the perils, read the signs,   
The warning history shows,   
For our Hogwarts is in danger   
From external, deadly foes   
And we must unite inside her   
Or we'll crumble from within   
I have told you, I have warned you...   
Let the Sorting now begin.  
-Sorting Hat, Order of the Phoenix

 

It really was quite a shame that Dumbledore hadn’t gone into the restaurant business, Hermione decided. Though she had absolutely no intention of confessing this to Molly Weasley— _I wonder where she and Arthur are in 1977_?—the breakfast that her current and future headmaster had conjured up for them was the best she’d ever tasted. The only possible problem with it was that she was almost too busy arguing with the man to properly enjoy the food. Furthermore, she discovered that it was extremely dissatisfying to argue with someone when they wouldn’t argue back. She never figured going back in time would make her appreciate Ron so much… Memories of past spats with her red headed friend played through her mind for a moment until they gave her an idea.

“Couldn’t you take out the memories that could be dangerous here and store them in a pensieve?” 

“The spells involved in completely removing memories to contain them in a device like that are quite complex,” he said carefully, “and even then, there would remain the possibility that someone might find the pensieve and experience what you were trying to conceal.” As her face fell, Dumbledore smiled at her gently, no doubt glad that she hadn’t decided to press this issue as she had about hiding away somewhere for the intervening months. “After all, we already know that magical items aren’t always safe, even in my own office,” he said mildly, his eyes twinkling at her from atop his half-moon spectacles. Blushing slightly, Hermione conceded the point. She decided to change the subject; remembering past rule breaking—not that she’d done a lot of that, mind—made her uncomfortable, especially around an authority figure like Dumbledore.

“Well, if you’re dead set on my remaining here and attending classes…” she paused, dangling her comment before him as if she hoped he would change his mind at the last minute. He merely nodded. “I ought to—well, the thing is…” she was at a loss to explain what she meant without _somehow_ implying her knowledge of the future. Rather than supplying her with guesses as to what she was attempting to say, like Harry and Ron did sometimes—it drove her _crazy_ —he just let her fumble on a bit until she’d managed to convey her meaning. “Is there a way to… conceal my appearance? So no one recognizes me—in the future, that is.”

“Illusion charms would be unequal to that task—the energy required would drain you of the focus you’d need to sustain them for longer than a week,” he said with a firm shake of his head. “I wouldn’t worry too much about it—after all, _I_ know you in the future, and I don’t seem to be suffering any ill effects.” She missed the teasing smile on his face, too busy pouring herself another generous glass of pumpkin juice.

“But, I wouldn’t know if it had done anything until I—” 

Something that sounded an awful lot like a chuckle was emanating from behind his white beard. 

“ _Oh_!” she fumed, more frustrated that he’d guessed how to push her buttons than by his teasing.

“I apologize, Miss Granger—you are quite amusing when you are righteously indignant, you see.”

“I’ll have to use a different name,” she said primly, deciding that a change of subject was the best way of saving face. “Nothing too different, though—I’m not very good at paying attention when I’m busy anyway, much less answering to a name that’s not really mine.” The librarian at Hogwarts could attest to that—she’d had to throw Hermione out after hours many times, after finding her ensconced in piles of books and completely oblivious to her surroundings. She wondered if Madam Pince had held her job for longer than twenty years.

“Might I ask what your middle name is?”

“Jane,” Hermione said, making a face. It was almost as if her father had endeavored to give her the most common name possible after the oddity her mother had chosen for her first name. Although, she seemed to recall that ‘Jane’ was somewhat of a family name… Somewhere in the very back of her memory, she could hear an older, female voice saying, “Come here, Miss Jane!” She focused on the memory, not realizing her eyes were shut until she’d opened them in delight, having placed the voice with its owner. She saw that Dumbledore was watching her patiently, clearly having recognized her look of intense thought.

“You seem to have come to an important conclusion of some sort,” he observed with a smile.

“My Nana—” she broke off, slightly embarrassed at the childish nickname. “ _Grandmother_ used to call me ‘Miss Jane.’”

“Family names are nothing to be ashamed of,” he said, tipping his head back in laughter at an ancient memory of his own— “Why, my brother Aberforth called me ‘Owlbuzz’ for years, although that may have had more to do with one of our great uncles being unable to speak his s’s without them sounding like z’s…”

Hermione tried to block out an image of Dumbledore as a bearded owl animagus, rather like Pigwidgeon, flying around his brother’s head and hooting madly. She decided to store up the memory in case she ever needed to give a speech—it seemed _much_ more useful than picturing everyone in the audience in their knickers. Before her traitorous mind could combine the two images into some sort of horrid abomination, the wizard across from her spoke again.

“Let’s see…’Miss Jane,’ eh? How about ‘James’ as a last name? Close enough, do you think?”

She thought about it, and nodded. ‘James’ was close enough to ‘Jane’ that she thought it wouldn’t be too terribly difficult to train herself to respond to it.

“You wouldn’t be familiar with Shakespeare, by any chance,” the Headmaster was asking now, his eyes alight with what she hoped wasn’t a horrible suggestion like ‘Portia.’ As much as the name had the potential to be lovely, all she could think about with her Muggle upbringing was a rather expensive car.

“Yes, actually—I quite enjoy—”

“ _A Midsummer Night’s Dream_?”

“Yes, that’s one of my favorites,” she said with genuine pleasure. But which name could he be— _of course_! “Hermia?” she asked, losing some of the wide smile she had adopted when he’d mentioned the play she liked.

“It is quite similar to your own,” he said almost apologetically when he saw her face.

“Yes, it is,” she said, slowly. At his raised eyebrow, she continued almost defensively, “I’d sort of hoped to pick something less…‘ _Hermy_ ,’” she said, a little sadly. “Something more…” _exotic and feminine_ , she thought to herself, feeling almost as if she were disappointing her mother.

“Do you think you’d be able to answer to a name like ‘Rhiannon’ or ‘Diana?’” he asked her in a serious tone. ‘Rhiannon Granger’ sounded so amusing that she gave up feeling sorry for herself and her odd name and laughed with him.

“I suppose not,” she admitted ruefully.

“It’s settled, then,” he said, standing and performing a complex wand wave with a muttered incantation that cleaned the desk of their shared breakfast. “I shall send a note to Professor McGonagall that a new transfer student named Hermia James is to be sorted tonight along with the first years.”

Hermione’s jaw dropped open.

“But—I thought I would just join my house—”

“It would seem very odd for a new student to be able to arbitrarily choose what house she belonged to, would it not?”

She hadn’t thought of that. Besides, it wasn’t as if it were much of a question, anyway. Even Professor Snape had been known to make the odd snide comment on how very _Gryffindor_ she was. _Oh, that’s right_ , she realized with no small shock. _Professor Snape is in his seventh year now, too_. She hoped she didn’t have run into him very much—after spending six years addressing him as ‘Professor’ she’d find it very difficult to refer to him as anything else. She wondered if he’d begun his habit of sneering by now, and pictured him sitting at the Slytherin table, coldly watching her don the Sorting Hat—

Hermione groaned.

“What is it, child?” Dumbledore came to stand by the ( _still frighteningly hideous_ , Hermione thought idly) chair she was seated in, and she looked up at him in almost mock distress.

“I have to be _sorted_ again!”

“Oh, I don’t think it will be that bad,” he said, moving away from her to regard the quiescent Hat in its resting place on the bookshelf. “You know what to expect, now.”

“Exactly!” she exclaimed as she stood, meaning to walk over to him but instead pacing in a little circle, gesturing with her hands. “Now I know what they’re probably saying about everyone while we stand there, petrified!” _Although, come to think of it_ , she thought with grudging amusement, _I don’t know if anyone could be as bad as Fred and George_. The Weasley twins weren’t cruel, exactly, but they did seem to have an amusing and clever observation on nearly everyone who sat on the stool at the Welcoming Feast.

She had conveniently forgotten who else’s seventh year it was, however, as the hours slipped by to suppertime.

=====

Sirius Black watched as the boy next to him reached up and mussed his own hair absently, his eyes on a pretty redheaded witch that was stepping down from the Hogwarts Express. James studiously ignored the whispered comments and nudges from the three Gryffindors standing behind him, however. His hand lifted again, the third time in five minutes, and Sirius stretched his own hand up and tousled the black hair for him.

“You know, Prongs, it would serve you right if I cast a spell on your hair to lay flat, for a change,” Padfoot said in a teasing voice. He and the other two roared in laughter. Sirius felt no remorse, even as James turned and glared at his friend for a few seconds, unable to hold the look for long at the sight of all three of them in stitches. Both Remus and Peter had been waiting for him to say it ever since he’d threatened to do so while watching the last Quidditch game during their sixth year. James was almost the opposite of vain—taking pride in his tousled appearance as if he wanted everyone to think he’d only just now hopped off of his broom.

“Are you afraid she’s gone and found someone else in the three days since you last saw each other, James?” Remus teased the frowning young man lightly. They were rewarded with more glaring, interrupted almost immediately by a soft female voice.

“Hello, James, Sirius, Remus, Peter.” 

They each inclined their heads to the speaker, Lily Evans. James’ smile broadened considerably, and he reached out a hand to take hers. In a very Lily-ish move, she looked blankly at his hand and cocked an eyebrow. She looked for all the world like a queen who had been addressed inappropriately by a stable lad. James looked completely crushed. Sirius tried to keep his face calm and detached, but inside he was delighted—Lily had taken his dare.

“Have a good summer?” she continued in the same polite, distant voice. 

“Smashing,” winked Sirius, taking her arm. His inward grin broadened as James’ jaw dropped, watching him lead Lily off towards the castle with Peter and Remus in tow. James had to run to catch up, which suited Sirius just fine—his friend wasn’t anywhere near as graceful on foot as he was in the air. 

“I think she heard me,” Remus said, grinning. “Shut your mouth, Prongs.”

“Moony—you _git_!” James said in disgust.

Sirius’ barking laughter was cut short by a resounding thump on the back of his head as Remus expressed his displeasure for having to take the blame for yet another of his stunts.

=====

“Watch it, Avery!”

A tall boy in Slytherin robes snapped at the burly boy who had tripped over the cane he was holding. A third young man frowned slightly behind the other two, for he’d seen his housemate Lucius Malfoy deliberately thrust his cane into their friend’s path, clearly intending to trip him. 

Severus Snape’s mind blanched at his seemingly instinctive term of ‘friend’ as a description of Epimetheus Avery. He supposed Avery was his friend—no one in their right mind called the tough youngster ‘Epimetheus;’ he was simply ‘Avery’—as far as someone such as himself had friends, that was. Snape experienced a rare moment of self-doubt as he pondered whether his questioning his friends was due to his own reticence, or their casual disregard for him. Shaking his head at his unworthy thoughts, he watched as Lucius ordered Avery to carry his leather satchel into the Great Hall, no doubt having intended that very result when he’d tripped the dark-haired sixth year in the first place. 

Malfoy had no finesse, however. Avery wasn’t a brilliant mind by any stretch of the imagination, but when the patrician snob called him Epimetheus in a mocking voice before stalking away, Snape saw that their group’s designated bully had hefted Lucius’ bag with a speculative gleam in his eye.

Severus knew better than to insult someone holding his valuables, but Malfoy, it appeared, did not.

He didn’t bother to speak to Avery as he walked past the younger man who was now inspecting the contents of their fellow Slytherin’s attaché case with grim determination. In truth, he was finding it extremely difficult to maintain a blank facial expression as he remembered that ‘Epimetheus’ was the one responsible for opening Pandora’s Box in Greek Mythology.

Snape swept through the huge doorway to Hogwarts feeling annoyed with himself for the pleasant feeling of homecoming he'd felt the second he had arrived.

=====

Hermione paced the floor in Dumbledore’s office anxiously, trying to calm herself of what the older wizard had causally termed as ‘stage fright.’ It was a lot more than that, she knew. In less than an hour, she’d be in front of a room full of strangers—some more dear than others—perpetuating a charade that could ruin more than just _her_ future, with just one slip.

Dumbledore seemed to believe that nothing could go wrong.

She dearly wished she could subscribe to his blind faith, but maybe that was just the point. Maybe…it wasn’t blind, after all, but his subtle way of telling her that it really _was_ meant to be, though he couldn’t come right out and say it. Perhaps—perhaps she was here for a reason, maybe she was supposed to change things not with her words, but her very existence— _Or maybe I’m taking blind faith a tad too far_ , she thought, scathingly, trying to rid herself of those kinds of thoughts--the kind Professor Trelawney would love to dissect into a thousand stupid meanings until Hermione was willing to do or say anything to get out of her stuffy classroom.

Just then, Dumbledore appeared at the doorway and spoke to her. She felt as though she’d almost jumped out of her skin—so deep in thought was she that she’d almost forgotten her _reasons_ for concentrating so hard. The Headmaster lifted an eyebrow at her and she flushed, angry with herself for getting so caught up in her thoughts. She watched him retrieve the Sorting Hat from its place, cradling it gently in his arms as he beckoned to her to follow him down to the Great Hall, still looking slightly amused at her reaction. 

As they walked through the hallways that were at once familiar and strange to her, she felt an odd sort of excitement rising within her. It was _her_ adventure—this time, she wasn’t merely following after Harry and Ron to prevent catastrophe. Of course, with that thought came the one that pointed out that any catastrophe this time would be solely her fault, as well.

As they passed classrooms she recognized, she realized that one of the things that frustrated her most about herself right now was an entirely different kind of excitement—and, try as she might, she couldn’t see it as a bad thing: She’d get to learn a third of the curriculum over again, which could do nothing but help her preparation for her NEWTs. 

If she made it back home, that was.

=====

“Treacle Tart?” James offered the sweet to Sirius first, in what his friend was sure was an attempt to punish Miss Evans for ignoring him earlier. Unfortunately, such punishment does no good when one is still being ignored—Lily was now engaged in an animated conversation with Lupin.

“Don’t tell me you’ve somehow managed to sneak food from the kitchens the _first day_ ,” Sirius said, admiringly.

“I wish—” James grinned. “Nah, mum sent them with me for the train ride, but I forgot they were in my robes until I put them on coming into the station,” he explained. His hazel eyes looked past his best friend and glazed over slightly, causing Sirius to assume that Lily had deigned to glance in his direction. The next words to be spoken confirmed his suspicion.

“James Potter—there’s a _reason_ why the house elves don’t have food out so early,” she scolded the young man. “Where in Merlin’s name did you find—“

“Mum sent them along for us,” James said, deliberately raising his voice slightly so that the other Gryffindors at the table could hear their argument. Sirius leaned back slightly, partly to watch the two of them row, and partly to remove himself from the line of fire should it get ugly. Lily Evans was pretty damn good at Charms, after all.  
“You know, _my mum_ , the woman you’ve spent the past week talking to instead of me?” Prongs crossed his arms smugly, clearly proud that he’d managed to announce that Lily had spent a substantial amount of time in his company—well, his _family’s_ company—recently. The pretty redhead blushed, properly chastised but refusing to give in.

“I can’t help it that I find your mum more interesting to talk to than you are,” she pointed out in the same raised tone.

Sirius looked around. Pretty much the whole table had given up their earlier pretence of private discussions and were gaping at the pair of seventh years bickering. The fact that Lily was wearing her brand-new Head Girl badge was making this a particularly interesting bit of live cinema.

“Well, you know what they always say,” James drawled. “Men always marry women like their own mothers.” At that, he leaned over Sirius and snatched her hand from the table, kissing it fervently, and quickly letting go before his friend could come up with a suitable punishment for crushing his legs.

Both Gryffindor House and Sirius Black found themselves disappointed when the only retort the usually dependable Lily Evans could come up with was to point out that there seemed to be a transfer student among the group of students trooping in to be sorted.

=====

“I’ve come up with a new curse,” Lucius said pompously, looking around at the two students sitting nearby. Snape sat about five feet away, near the end of the long Slytherin table, but near enough that he could hear his fellow seventh years plotting. Though they periodically studied together and often spent time in their corner of Slytherin common room discussing current and past events, Malfoy, Wilkes, and Avery all respected his desire to sit alone during meals. What they didn’t suspect was the reason—that, after years of watching the ringleader Lucius and his spoiled displays of power, Snape knew that the blonde boy was at his most vicious during mealtimes. He had no intention of being bullied into their plots against fellow students—not out of any soft-hearted desire to protect anyone, mind, but because it seemed a petty way to get what he wanted.

Besides, it was far more interesting to listen to Lucius’ boasts and simple plots—he himself had come up with countless hexes, curses, and charms during his time at Hogwarts—without the need to school his face into the same vapid interest that was now displayed on Avery’s and Frank’s faces.

“Of course, it’ll be useless after tonight,” Malfoy was saying, reaching into his robes for his wand, “but it will be quite interesting to see what comes of it.” At this, the pureblood leaned closer to his two companions, and whispered more about his newly created curse. Snape almost regretted his known habit of solitude, because it had sounded as though Lucius had plans that might cause trouble for his house. He couldn’t think of anything good the other boy could come up with that would only apply on the night of the Welcome Feast.

=====

All too soon, a quivering black haired girl with the last name of Wallaby was sorted to Hufflepuff, and Hermione heard her new name being briskly called out by Professor McGonagall. She felt the curious eyes of the whole room resting on her, more so than she ever had when she’d been one of the nervous eleven year olds waiting their turn. She moved forward with a confidence she did not feel, and was comforted a little by the wry look McGonagall gave her as they both eyed the rickety little stool usually used by the new students. It certainly wasn’t regularly sat upon by eighteen year olds.

This thought reminded Hermione that she could celebrate her birthday twice this year, as September 19th wasn’t far away. Then again, with all the Time Turner had added, along with her (hopefully _only_ ) four extra months spent here, a second birthday this year might not be so far-fetched after all. What _as_ farfetched was the realization that she wouldn’t be born for two more years…

She perched herself carefully on the stool, simultaneously wanting to look to Gryffindor table for reassurance and deliberately not looking there—she didn’t know what sort of reaction she would have when she saw the Marauders, and she certainly didn’t want to have that unknown reaction while the entire student body and teachers were gawping at her.

McGonagall started to lower the Sorting Hat to her head, and Hermione’s eyes were caught by a sudden movement on the far right of the hall, from the Slytherin table. Just as she narrowed her eyes to focus on whatever it was, the Hat’s descent tickled the very top of her head and it shouted in a very clear voice,

“SLYTHERIN!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't panic. Deep breaths!


	6. The New Student

  
“I beseech your grace that I may know  
The worst that may befall me in this case”  
- _Hermia, A Midsummer Night's Dream_

 

Hermione was in a daze. The hat’s pronouncement echoed in her ears like a bad dream played back on a scratched record. Her sense of decorum won out—after all, she didn’t want to draw undue attention to herself—and she slipped from the tiny stool and made her way across the Great Hall to her new table. The steps were unfamiliar, and she caught herself wondering if she’d ever even _walked_ on this part of the floor before. 

As she moved past the other Slytherins, aiming for a seat at the far end of the table, she was struck by the difference between their behavior and the Gryffindors. Even with twenty years’ worth of difference, it looked like the attitudes were the same. Hardly any of her new housemates met her eyes; no one cheered or welcomed her. Across the hall, she could see the Gryffindors proudly toasting their new members. It was a profound contrast.

A discreet cough interrupted her train of thought, and Hermione looked for the source, only to be greeted with a slightly familiar face. Professor— _Severus_ , she thought uncomfortably—Snape had apparently been watching her as she took stock of her situation.

“Welcome to Slytherin,” he said deprecatingly. _Well, that answers that question_ , she thought, at the sight of his sneer. Hogwarts students were not the reason he was so grouchy—or if they were, that meant _all_ Hogwarts students, his classmates included. Well, there was one advantage. _This_ version of Snape couldn’t take house points.

“Gee, thanks,” she said, her voice dripping sarcasm. For a split second, his sneer was replaced by a look of shock mixed with—grudging admiration? Hermione surmised that she was just imagining things. She sat down not far from her future professor and made a show of looking around at the other Slytherins. With the exception of (was that Lucius Malfoy?) a group of seventh years, most of the students at this table sat in knots of twos and threes, or singly. The space they left between and the low voices they were using both implied that trust was not a foregone conclusion when wearing green and silver. She made a mental note to bring something to do to every meal; Hermione was used to friendly activity in the Great Hall, as a Gryffindor, and she’d soon be bored stiff if she had just herself to talk to every meal. “Looks like I fit right in,” she said finally, realizing she’d sat by herself with plenty of room to either side. Hermione almost missed Snape’s muttered, “You might, at that.”

Dumbledore stood and began to welcome them, his words causing a strange delight in her. During his speech a few months ago, not a few of her fellow seventh years had expressed their sadness that it was the last of such speeches they’d hear. Not only was the feast itself a comforting ritual for seven years, but Professor Dumbledore was completely unpredictable in a way that made each speech different, and a real treat, besides. The fact that she was now sitting through her _eighth_ of such speeches made her smile, although she didn’t miss the irony of her whole situation: she’d figured she would never have the anxiety of being sorted again, either—and look how _that_ had turned out. She shook her head and busied herself with examining the faces at the High Table.

McGonagall did look pretty much the same now as she would in the future, the same as Dumbledore. Hagrid was not, of course, sitting with them, and wouldn’t be for many years. She saw with surprise that Professor Slughorn was seated in the same place he would be in her time, and had to remind herself that she already knew he was the Potions professor during Harry’s parents’ time. She closed her eyes. 

_Don’t think about it_! She chided herself for it, but, oh, she wanted to look for them so badly. Dumbledore may have trusted her to behave normally, but she didn’t trust herself; it was too much of a temptation to dash across the room and alternately hug them and talk with them. For one awful second, she wondered if Dumbledore had forced the hat to sort her to Slytherin to prevent anything from happening to violate the timeline, but she quashed that thought quickly. _She_ had been the one to protest that she couldn’t possibly be allowed to meet or talk with anyone. The Headmaster had just waved away her protests in that enigmatic way of his, assuring her that there was a reason for everything…

Supper appeared before her (her mind supplied the phrase ‘ _like magic_ ,’ causing her to valiantly suppress a giggle. Sometimes being Muggle-born made the Wizarding world amusing in ways that would take forever to explain to someone like Ron), and she was pleased to see that, Slytherin or Gryffindor, the feast was the same. Surveying her options, she spotted a plateful of her favorite biscuits—almond poppy seed. Without thinking, she politely asked Professor ( _Severus_ , she hissed to herself) Snape to pass them to her, luckily forcing herself to simply say ‘excuse me’ rather than use his name. He hadn’t introduced himself, after all. He just looked at her blankly, proceeding to fetch himself some of the chicken near her with a quick mutter of ‘Accio drumstick!’

Hermione was damned if she was going to allow herself to think that being a Slytherin meant one had to forgo the use of manners. She purposefully avoided the dark-haired young man’s gaze, stood up, and fetched the plate of biscuits by hand. She didn’t have to look at him to feel his smirk.

“You won’t last long in Slytherin if you can’t get what you want, Miss James,” he said derisively. Snape probably thought that knowing her name without revealing his gave him an advantage. Little did he know.

“I did get what I wanted,” she said coolly, gesturing to the sweets on her plate.

“I meant _without_ making a spectacle of yourself.”

“Perhaps the cookies and the attention were only part of the object,” she said, managing to contain the anger he seemed to be trying to bait her into. _Maybe I was trying to goad you into underestimating me_. She stopped herself from saying it aloud at the very last second, realizing with a new insight that tipping her hand like that was a very Gryffindor thing to do, and decidedly not Slytherin. Compared to Snape, she was pitifully outmatched, however.

“It’s a start,” he said, his tone designed to convey to her just what kind of a start it was. “Although if you want to imply hidden depths to your personality in the future, you’ll need to attempt to keep them _hidden_.” With a superior smile, he resumed his meal, shooting a final “Welcome to Slytherin,” at her without looking up. It was a petty ending to his diatribe, reminding Hermione that this version of Snape wasn’t completely grown up, yet. This knowledge made her bold, simultaneously reminding her that she really was a Gryffindor, but that simulating Slytherin thinking might just be _fun_.

“Thank you, Severus,” she said, knowing instinctively that this informality—and her unexplained knowledge of his first name—would be nearly intolerable to him. She didn’t even deign to look for his reaction, but the clatter of his dropped fork told her all she needed to know.

=====

When they’d all finished eating, and the usual announcements and such were completed, Dumbledore caught her eye and indicated that he wanted to speak to her. Her first impulse was to ignore it; she didn’t want to give her new classmates the impression that she was unhappy. The more she thought about it, however, the more she tried to view her situation in a Slytherin frame of mind. A private chat with the Headmaster directly following the Welcome Feast would give the impression that she was quite important, in Slytherin thinking, and not that she was protesting her placement there. From what she’d seen so far from Snape, and her observations over her previous six years, no Slytherin would ever pass up an opportunity to show off how important they were. She nodded at Dumbledore.

Hermione made sure to completely ignore Snape as the prefects called to the first years and the Great Hall started to empty. She was glad of the decision a moment later as she caught herself searching frantically for her bag of books and parchment. Gathering up a heavy bag of schoolwork to take with her after every meal had become such a routine that she hadn’t even realized it was a habit until she didn’t have anything to gather up. Desperately searching for something that wasn’t there would certainly tip the scales back to his favor, in their unacknowledged battle of wits.

“Hello, Professor,” she said politely, unconsciously drawing herself up proudly as she stood before the Headmaster. The last few stragglers from the feast exited behind them, having run out of reasons to stay and stare at the new student.

“Ahh, Miss James—I believe there are some still some possessions of yours in my office,” said Dumbledore, equally politely. She had a sneaking suspicion he was mocking her, but if he was, it was so subtle that she really couldn’t tell. The two of them retraced their steps through the myriad hallways of Hogwarts until they arrived at his office.

“Pecan Pasty.”

He surprised her by speaking the password aloud in front of her, and she was grateful for what the action implied—she now knew his password, and for however long it remained ‘Pecan Pasty,’ she would be able to come to him without having to bother any other student or teacher.

The crafty old wizard surprised her further when they’d reached the top of the stone staircase. A medium sized trunk sat in the middle of the floor, its lid open to reveal two piles of neatly stacked clothing—school robes—and a further delight—school books, parchment, quills, and ink. Hermione couldn’t conceal her happiness, and impulsively wrapped her arms around the dear old man, his beard tickling her nose as she did so. His arms came around her belatedly, and she wondered if she’d shocked him. She didn’t care.

“You really shouldn’t have,” she tried to protest, after she’d released Dumbledore and gone over to admire the packet of quills in the trunk.

“Nonsense,” he said genially, “you wish to blend in, do you not? You couldn’t do that very well if you had no school supplies, and only one outfit!” She nodded, torn between opening the packet of new parchment to feel its thickness and delving into the unfamiliar Charms textbook she spied in the lower corner of the trunk. A sudden wave of tiredness struck her, and as she yawned; it registered to her that with his gift, Professor Dumbledore really had taken a lot of the stress from her shoulders. She lifted her wand to shut the trunk and levitate it down to her new quarters—this thought sent a shiver of ice down her spine, for she had no clear idea of where the Slytherin dormitories even were—but the Headmaster raised his hand to stop her.

“Before you do that, let me—” he interrupted himself by raising his wand, and with a concise swish and flick, her school robes displayed a neat Slytherin patch.

“Th—thank you,” she stuttered, not quite meaning it. She had always liked green, but the connotations of wearing it, here at Hogwarts…

“Would you like to finish?” he asked, gesturing to the tidy pile of school ties, scarves, and socks in the top corner of the new trunk. She nodded and, focusing, she transfigured the black and white to silver and green, leaving a single scarf at the bottom of the pile unchanged. She missed the intense look her mentor was giving her as she did this, but he did not miss her omission—nor did he miss her softly muttered incantation as she closed the trunk lid, sealing her new supplies along with a single crimson and gold scarf buried inside.

When Hermione turned back to him, her face was carefully composed, but his look of concentration confused her. His next question did not, but she couldn’t quite explain herself— _I’m sorry, sir, I know you say that the Sorting Hat is never wrong, but I know I’m not supposed to be in Slytherin_ —in a way that didn’t come off sounding petulant and childish to her own ears.

“Is there something else you need?”

“No, everything is—” she paused for a split second, “just fine.”

It looked as if Dumbledore might have said something else, but just then a jovial voice reached them from the bottom of the stairs.

“Dumbledore! Have you still got my new student?”

The voice was very familiar, and Hermione had just worked out who it was when Professor Slughorn finally made it to the top of the curving staircase, huffing slightly.

“Excellent feast, my man,” he said, patting his large belly and grinning. “Makes it a bit hard to manage the stairs right now, though!” Her new head of house smiled at her kindly, the smile broadening considerably when he saw that she already sported the Slytherin patch on her robes. “Efficient!” he complimented her as he levitated her trunk for their walk to the dungeons.

“Thank you, sir,” she said, heartened almost against her will by his pleasant behavior. Hermione didn’t count him among her favorite teachers, but he was good at what he did—and she couldn’t help but be glad that he was head of Slytherin house, rather than Snape. She expected to feel an inward shudder at the thought, but her future Professor’s name simply reminded her of their conversation earlier, which wasn’t a bad memory at all. In fact, she was…almost looking forward to more such encounters. Hermione never expected a chance to talk ( _argue, more like_ , she admitted) with the irascible Potions Master as an equal, but she found it very interesting.

“Ah, here we are,” Professor Slughorn was saying, and Hermione found to her dismay that not only had she been ignoring his idle chatter—not that he’d noticed—along the way to the dungeons, but she hadn’t paid a whit of attention to the route they’d taken to get there. All she knew was that they now stood before a large, forbidding looking suit of armor.

It was twice the normal size of the scattered plate mail guardians throughout the castle, and she’d have wondered if Hagrid could have felt comfortable in it, if it hadn’t had a splendid Slytherin coat of arms emblazoned on the chest piece. Slughorn was silent, and she began to feel nervous. She was sure he hadn’t asked her a question, but the longer they stood there unexpectedly, the more she began to fear that the password to the Slytherin section of the castle was no password at all. Perhaps it was some kind of test—she’d fail that, certainly, as a Muggle-born—or maybe Salazar Slytherin had imbued this suit of armor with personality, just like the founders had with the Sorting Hat. If that was the case, there was no question of why they still stood there—it would _know_ she didn’t belong here.

“My apologies, Professor,” a voice came from behind them, slightly out of breath. It was a brown haired boy of medium height, and his Slytherin robes bore a familiar badge with a letter ‘P’ embossed on the surface. She expected him to give an explanation as to his lateness, but the young man merely turned to the huge knight guarding the common room entrance.

“ _Fax mentis incedium gloriae_.” 

The Slytherin prefect looked very pleased with himself as Professor Slughorn made a soft cry of approval on hearing the Latin phrase. Hermione did not know enough Latin to be able to make it out—‘ _gloriae_ ’ meant ‘glory,’ she was pretty sure, but she would have to look up the rest.

“Thank you, Francis,” said Slughorn and, after making a face, the young man stepped into the space the silver suit of arms had vacated at the sound of the password. Hermione was glad she’d been repeating the phrase in her head to memorize it, for immediately after ‘Francis’ stepped past the Slytherin guardian, it moved back into place. She felt a sudden sinking dread, but the pudgy man next to her didn’t appear to see anything amiss.

“After you, young lady,” he said, gesturing that she go ahead of him.

“ _Fax mentis incedium gloriae_ ,” she said, trying to approximate the same inflection as her predecessor. The battle axe was lowered from its threatening position near her head—apparently, Slytherins did not mess around when it came to their own security—and she heard the man behind her mutter ‘Splendid!’ as she stepped for the first time into the abode of the silver and green. 

She had expected to see warm light and milling students, but instead she found she was in a dimly lit tunnel leading downwards. Hermione continued to chant the password in her head, knowing that it was probably worth more than her physical safety to write something like that down, even if their door guardian only let one person in at a time. The passageway snaked downward, curving slightly before leveling out, so she could glimpse the common room through the end of the tunnel before she reached it. She supposed that she should have been expecting this— _Hogwarts, A History_ mentioned that the Slytherin dormitories were located beneath the lake, although a description of the rooms themselves was not included—but it was a shock, all the same.

The common room itself looked slightly smaller than its Gryffindor counterpart, but it felt larger. Belying the fact that they were underground, the ceiling of the room was much higher, sporting ornate silver hanging lamps that glowed slightly green. There was not a traditional fireplace; instead there was a recessed area in the center where a miniature bonfire burned almost merrily. The light from this was the only glow in the room that didn’t seem to give the greenish tint she had noticed when she walked in. 

The furniture was definitely more ornate than she was used to, but it struck her that it was no more fancy than the Gryffindors’—in fact, they were very similar in design. When she looked around at the students clumped in small groups similar to their behavior at dinner, the differences began to make sense. The arrangement here was one of private, exclusive conversation, usually held at the edges of seats and leaning over parchment on desks, whereas in Gryffindor Tower, large groups of students lounged around on the couches and armchairs, often horsing around and changing the arrangements weekly. It was entirely possible that each common room was decorated with the same furniture—color changed to be appropriate, of course—however long ago, and the differences in them now was solely the result of how they’d been treated.

As a Gryffindor prefect in her own time, Hermione was completely certain that the crimson and gold versions were the most run-down of the four.

As she made her observations, she wasn’t completely oblivious to the fact that she was being observed in turn. It was incredibly interesting to see the varied reactions of the students—some were studiously ignoring her, others were staring at her quite rudely, and a few others simply looked her over curtly before going back to whatever they had been doing. It struck her how very different the feeling was from entering the Gryffindor common room. Here, she got the distinct impression that their scrutiny was more about themselves than her—and that they were judging each other on the reactions, as well. Hermione realized she wasn’t blushing, as she would have expected herself to be. The whole situation was akin to being an actress in a play, really, and though she wasn’t at all fond of performing, the intellectual exercise of it was incredibly stimulating. She wondered when it would wear off.

Probably sooner than she wanted.

It felt as though she had been standing at the mouth of the tunnel for ages, but Professor Slughorn only just then came up behind her, muttering happily under his breath as he entered the room. The reactions of the students was immediate on his entry as it had not been when she had come in. Most stopped speaking and looked up, the ones standing stood straighter, and some of the seated students stood, out of respect. Clearly, the Slytherins liked their head of house.

“Welcome, everyone,” he said gravely, a ghost of a smile crossing his face as he nodded to the cluster of first years. Hermione stood off to one side and watched avidly as the usually jovial Slughorn gave a somber and dignified welcome to the Slytherins of 1977. Her respect for the man grew with each word, for he did not pretend to ignore the growing danger, nor did he advise his students to take sides. She recalled Harry speaking of Slughorn’s reticence at returning to teach, and knew that he disapproved of Voldemort’s actions, past and present. He had to know the reputation of his house, as well—but his speech rode a careful line, expressing no opinion. Instead, he admonished his students to choose their paths wisely, both in academia and in their personal lives, always remembering the consequences of their actions. Privately, Hermione wondered if even Professor McGonagall had her students as well pegged as Slughorn knew his Slytherins. It was an eye-opening experience.

With the eyes and ears of the room occupied, Hermione began to examine the faces around her while still avidly listening to the portly gentleman at the front of the room. Wizarding fashion wasn’t as ever-changing as Muggle fashion, so it was really only the hairdos that gave a clue to the year—and even those weren’t as drastically different as she would have expected. At rest, the students didn’t appear to be any less friendly than any other students, and Hermione told herself she needed to shed her Gryffindor prejudice toward them as a house. The group of faces she examined next put that determination to the test immediately, however. Standing next to the prefect who had given them the password was a slender blonde boy who held himself so proudly that she was half-certain of who he was before he’d turned to look at her.

Lucius Malfoy looked her over insolently before raising a delicate eyebrow at her continued scrutiny. Feeling a rush of anger—wasn’t _he_ looking at her, as well?—she drew herself up in a deliberate imitation of his posture and traced her gaze over him in a similar way. Instead of raising her own eyebrow in acknowledgement of his challenge, however, she turned away from him as though he were beneath her notice.

She hoped it had looked confident—inside, she was shaking like a leaf.

She could hear Professor Slughorn beginning to wrap up his speech as she resumed her examination of the room full of students. One of the last faces she looked at was another familiar one. Severus Snape’s eyes were already on her, and when their eyes met, he surprised her by inclining his head slightly, as if to say he’d seen her encounter with Malfoy, and it was worthy of respect.

Maybe this wasn’t the end of the world, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Slytherin passphrase was taken from Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory, actually! In the scene where Wonka angrily reads to Charlie and Grandpa Joe the contract out loud, he reads two lines in Latin, the first of which is: "Fax mentis incendium gloriae," which (very) roughly translates to "The torch of glory kindles the mind." As in the movie, it's not actually a fantastic translation, but I thought it would pass muster.


	7. Through a Glass, Darkly

  
Hearts are worn in these dark ages  
You're not alone in this story's pages  
The night has fallen amongst the living and the dying  
And I'll try to hold it in  
Yeah I'll try to hold it in  
- _World on Fire, Sarah Mclachlan_

 

The strangeness was setting in. Unsurprisingly, the Slytherin dormitories were quite different from Gryffindor’s; not only were there heavy curtains to enclose each bed, but the beds themselves were separated from each other by thick silver and green velvet hangings. The result was that each student (she had no reason to believe the boys had it any different) had their own private space. She was grateful for it, and it was familiar to her, being an only child—but that was at home. She was used to being around her friends at Hogwarts, and while she wasn’t all that close to, say Lavender and Parvati for example, she also missed the basic human interaction she’d grown accustomed to over the past six and a half years.

After she’d been shown to her bed and begun transferring her clothes from the trunk to the small wardrobe that had been provided for her, she couldn’t stop looking over her shoulder and feeling as though something was missing. It took Hermione a full half hour of this behavior before she realized she’d been waiting for Ginny to come up and say good night.

It was all _wrong_.

She wasn’t sure if she could sleep without her overlarge t-shirt that sported the admonition to brush one’s teeth before bed. The gold tassel from the tapestry that surrounded her four-poster in Gryffindor Tower wasn’t there as she settled down on the unfamiliar mattress, and its absence made her wonder what she’d focus on to get to sleep. The brush Dumbledore had thoughtfully provided with her new things wasn’t anywhere near strong enough to tame her hair—she’d have to go to Hogsmeade and pick up a sturdier one—and the wayward curls kept tickling her nose. The last straw was the oppressive _silence_ of the room—no girlish giggles from Lavender and Parvati to lull her to sleep. The irony of that wasn’t missed by Hermione, who had lost count of the times she’d told those two to _stop it_ so she could get some rest—only to find out that she couldn’t get any rest without them.

With nothing innocuous to distract her mind into slumber, she was stuck with her own thoughts, which were just as disturbing as the differences between this room and the one she was used to. She was so _conflicted_ , and though her unexpected sorting should have been at the top of the list, what she was most anxious about was the fact that somewhere across the castle, five Gryffindors were also settling in to bed. One she considered a colleague—even though she wasn’t a member of the Order of the Phoenix ( _yet_ , she thought with grim resolve); two others she had never even expected to be able to meet; yet another, whose presence in this time period made her heart ache with the loss of him in hers; the last she knew to be the worst sort of traitor—and yet the other four trusted him implicitly. They were all so _close_ , but with her having been sorted as a Slytherin, they were almost as distant as the twenty years that should be separating them.

Hermione saw herself as a woman of action and study, but not necessarily in that order. She’d done her studying of these human subjects over the course of her years at Hogwarts, starting in her third year there. What she really felt like doing now was sneaking into Harry’s room and filching his invisibility cloak, in order to…sneak into Gryffindor Tower and… _Right_ , she thought wryly, _that won’t work. Besides, acting like Harry and Ron is what got me here in the first place._

Hermione knew that ‘acting like Harry and Ron’ would have to stop, mainly because she knew what both of them would be doing right now if they were in her place—desperately trying to get into Gryffindor Tower, perhaps even _succeeding_. In one night they’d probably have the timeline in so many knots that a dozen time-turners would be required to fix it. Not that either of them were irresponsible ( _at least, not always_ , she thought fondly), but Hermione couldn’t imagine it would be easy to think clearly when faced with the chance to save your parents’ lives, and by doing so, change yours infinitely for the better. Ron wouldn’t turn his nose up at the opportunity to rid the world of a lying rat—and somehow she knew that it would be futile to explain to him that doing so _before_ he did his betraying would mean he was killing an innocent man.

Hermione allowed herself for a brief moment to imagine what life would be like if so many of the horrible events she knew would happen to those precious people asleep in that faraway tower had not happened. 

Harry… _oh god_ …she was crying now, the breath catching in her throat unexpectedly, warmth trickling past her tightly shut lids across her cheeks and into her hair. She told herself it was a gift to herself, a luxury she didn’t intend on indulging in very often. As she often did when she cried—not that she allowed it to happen much—her mind raced, and she could almost see the alternate scenarios against the blackness of her eyelids.

Harry at three, sitting on Professor Lupin’s lap and tugging at his graying hair as his parents look on indulgently.

Harry at five, in a Muggle playground with James on the monkey bars, Lily’s red hair gleaming in the sun as she throws her head back and laughs.

Harry at eight, squealing in delight as Sirius chases him in dog form.

Harry at eleven, waving goodbye to his tearful yet proud parents as he searches for a seat on the train with Ron—the two boys having become best friends years beforehand.

Hermione was nearly sobbing now, but what put her over the edge was the child she thought of next—Neville Longbottom. 

Would he have been more confident if he’d been the ‘chosen one?’ Or would the pressure of what would happen to him instead of Harry make him even more nervous? Neville’s parents had been tortured into insanity by Bellatrix Lestrange, so he wouldn’t have his mother’s dying sacrifice to protect him. Hermione thought of the shy young man he’d grown into, the way he’d come into his own during their DA meetings and in the greenhouse with his beloved plants. She compared his happiness with Harry’s—for her friend was happy, for all that he had the weight of the wizarding world on his shoulders—and asked herself if she could really be the judge of which future was best.

If a powerful man like Voldemort had so desperately wanted to hear the prophesy, and a valiant group like the Order of the Phoenix had been determined to prevent him, then no matter what she did in the past would change its underlying truth. Who was she to choose an uncertain future for Neville in order to attempt to save Harry from the life he’d known? How was she even to know that Voldemort wouldn’t simply attempt to kill the Potter family at a later date—and, she horrified herself with the thought—succeed, where in the past she knew, his power had been nullified by Lily Potter’s sacrifice.

She guessed that Professor Dumbledore was right, after all—she wasn’t going to try to change anything—because, awful as it all was, the unknown could be much, much worse.

=====

Hours later and still Hermione could not sleep. Her brain was too full of questions and incomplete answers to allow herself to relax enough to drift off. She’d spent most of the time analyzing everything she could remember about the Sorting Hat, the criterion for acceptance to each house, the average time it took to sort each student, and now she was focused on the behavior of the others in the room, trying to find a clue. Not for the first time that night, she wondered just how sentient the Sorting Hat was. How much of their essence had each of the Founders poured into it? Was it intuitive enough to recognize her predicament—and more importantly, if it was, would it deliberately place her as far away from temptation as possible?

If it had, she really wished it would have asked her first—she would have infinitely preferred Ravenclaw.

It hadn’t even bothered to ask her, though, as it had done the first time. She’d been expecting Ravenclaw at the time, having read everything she could get her hands on about Hogwarts starting the day she got her letter—and the unanticipated suggestion that Gryffindor was where she truly belonged had excited her and surprised her so much that she’d readily accepted. Harry had confided in her that he’d been given a choice, as well—and that he was almost daily thankful of his choice, just as she was of hers. She would have enjoyed Ravenclaw more than he’d have liked Slytherin, but even then at thirteen (when they’d been talking about what a git Malfoy had been _again_ ), she had been able to see why they’d both been sorted to Gryffindor.

Which was what made her current situation so confusing.

She tried to approach the problem logically, offering suggestions to herself and then rejecting each as she proved them implausible. She had been the last to be sorted, but the time between her and the girl before hadn’t been long enough for the real Sorting Hat to be swapped out. 

Hermione had just about convinced herself that she’d been placed in Slytherin on purpose, when she’d realized something significant.

She was Muggleborn.

Somehow she doubted that even the authority of Albus Dumbledore was enough to supercede the essence of Salazar Slytherin contained in the wrinkled old hat.  


Somehow, even with that troubling thought as the last on her mind, Hermione forced herself to sleep, knowing she would have ample time to devote to this mystery during the time she had to spend trapped in the past.

=====

It seemed as if she’d barely shut her eyes when the unmistakable sounds of movement woke her. The very rightness of this comforted Hermione—she’d had the habit of waking every morning to the same sounds for almost six years, having gotten used to sleeping in a dormitory since she was twelve. A realization struck her, and she got out of bed with a highly amused look on her face. The first few weeks of being Head Girl, she had almost always been late to breakfast—and only now did she realize why. As Head Girl, she had a room to herself, and not even Crookshanks could make enough noise to wake her.

Her smile faded slightly as she heard low whispers coming from the other side of the canopy that surrounded her bed. Dealing with Severus Snape had been unnerving, the thought of dealing with Lucius Malfoy was disturbing—but the prospect of dealing with her fellow Slytherin roommates was downright terrifying. Hermione had never been any good at interacting with other women.

Steeling herself against showing any weakness, Hermione wrapped herself in a robe that a kindly house elf had left hanging near her bed. She tried to distract herself from the familiar feelings of guilt she associated with house elves—she’d given up on her crusade to liberate them, but even happy pseudo-slaves made her feel guilty—and found that the colors of the robe itself served quite well in that regard.

Silver and green, ugh.

She composed her face into a polite smile and stepped past the heavy tapestry to meet her new classmates. As she suspected, the girls stopped whispering the moment she appeared, which undoubtedly meant they had been talking about her. _At least even Slytherins know it’s impolite to talk about people behind their backs_ , she thought, immediately berating herself for thinking like a stereotypical Gryffindor. The three girls before her looked like normal teenaged witches, if a slight bit better dressed, even in their nightclothes. 

The one in front was a striking black girl wearing silver silk pajamas with what looked like Tarot symbols scattered across it in Slytherin green. Her arms were crossed as if it were very important to her to appear unimpressed by the new girl. To her left was a plump, pale skinned girl wearing a robe identical to Hermione’s, and a similarly colored scarf around her head. She was looking back and forth to Hermione and the first girl, as if unsure what her opinion should be. The third girl studied Hermione with genuine interest in her clever dark eyes. She was already dressed, wearing bellbottom jeans and a purple peasant shirt—the sight of which made Hermione feel a bit better. The unrelenting display of Slytherin pride was starting to get a bit nauseating.

The four girls just stared at each other for a long minute.

“Good morning,” Hermione said cautiously, to cover the awkward silence.

“Good morning, Miss James,” said a cool voice from behind her. She had barely a moment to turn to face this newcomer—someone with a very good memory, she realized—before the speaker had swept past to stand with the other three girls in front of her. The effect would have hardly been more intimidating had it been performed by Minerva McGonagall. If Hermione had been in any doubt of her status in the pecking order, it was not a question now.

“I’m Cassia,” said the tall blonde woman—definitely not a _girl_ , that one—imperiously. She gestured to the other girls. “This is Eunae,” an elegant hand was placed on the shoulder of the girl in front; Cassia had pronounced it like ‘Oo-nay,’ and Hermione was very curious to see how it was spelled. “Prynne” was next, as Cassia adjusted the collar of the purple shirt the black-haired witch was wearing, and “Olive” was last. The blonde had rested her hand on the top of the short girl’s head as if she were introducing a toddler. Olive tolerated this as if it were a common occurrence.

Hermione had nodded to each of the girls as she was introduced, and afterwards she looked to Cassia, who was clearly their leader. The look in her eyes was far from friendly, but not malicious. It could best be described as curious, and Hermione hoped that meant she wasn’t going to be treated like an outsider for the long months she would spend here.

Then she realized that if she thought she could keep up with true Slytherins at their own game, she was sorely mistaken: Cassia had addressed her with her last name, which could be construed as a sign of respect—though Hermione knew it was intended to show that she was an outsider. The problem was (and while it made her angry, she had to admit it was very slyly done), if she did not respond in kind, she would be insulting the people she’d be spending her exile with.

Except that during the introduction, Cassia had not included any last names. 

Even knowing that some of her future classmates were undoubtedly the children of the girls in front of her, she couldn’t possibly hope to guess correctly. She stood silent for a long moment until Cassia raised an elegant eyebrow, waiting for her response.

“I’m pleased to meet you, ladies,” Hermione said, feeling an overwhelming urge to curtsey, and squashing it. It was impossible not to feel proud of herself for avoiding the nearly inevitable faux pas. She raised her eyes to Cassia’s, nodding to her in a gesture that she was sure the other girls would see as a sign of respect, but that the two of them knew was symbolic of ‘nice try.’ The taller girl’s face fell slightly, and as she had done during her conversation with Snape, Hermione reminded herself that they were all very young yet. She shuddered inwardly to think of what kind of a woman this imperious young lady would become.

“Well, this is all _very_ enchanting, to be sure,” the dark-eyed girl in the purple shirt said firmly, “but I’m hungry.” She started for the door, with the girl whose name was Olive trailing behind her. “Coming, Cass?”

Hermione had to work very had not to laugh, as Cassia’s face took on a pained expression, and she shut her eyes briefly. Clearly she did not appreciate being referred to in such a way, especially not in front of ‘the new girl.’

“In a bit,” she said curtly. “Olive— _surely_ you’re not going to breakfast like _that_.”

The short girl stopped dead in her tracks and looked down at her robe and nightclothes. A cry of dismay crossed her lips, and she rushed over to a nearby trunk, tugging off her scarf as she dressed hurriedly. Hermione turned away, not wishing to cause more stress by staring. She began to dress as well, trying not to grimace at the collection of silver and green outfits and finally choosing a combination that had a majority of silver and not much green.

“I’m surprised they let you stay in the Seventh Year dormitory,” a voice behind her said, loudly. Hermione turned as she buttoned her skirt, to see the dark-skinned girl named Eunae leaning against her bedpost, her arms again crossed. The question was puzzling—why wouldn’t they allow her to sleep with her classmates?

“I don’t know what you mean,” she said, swiftly making her bed and wishing the coverlet was crimson, instead of green.

“You didn’t earn it,” was the surprising reply.

“Excuse me?”

“There’s a hierarchy,” explained Cassia from across the room. “Each dormitory is for a specific class. This is the best one.” Hermione wondered how this girl had allowed herself to sleep in anything less than the best in the previous six years. She was still confused, though. A Seventh Year was a Seventh Year, weren’t they?

“I fail to see—” 

Eunae cut her off tersely. “As far as I’m concerned, this is _your_ first year here, not your seventh.” She stood up and looked Hermione up and down with a sour look on her face, making her feel almost like a piece of meat. “But I’m not in charge.” With that, Eunae stalked out of the room and out of sight.

“At least I’m making a good impression,” Hermione said to herself, ruefully.

“If you say so,” a cool voice said behind her.

She turned quickly, having thought herself alone in the room, but all Hermione saw was the back of some expensive silk robes and a smooth chignon as Cassia left the room without another word.


	8. Something Less Than a Warm Welcome

  
“Life is either a daring adventure or nothing at all.”   
- _Helen Keller_

 

Breakfast was an interesting experience, though devoid of all conversation. It appeared to be a House tradition that all Slytherin students appeared at breakfast on the Sunday before class; the table was as populated this morning as it had been the evening before. They appeared to be the only House with such a tradition, however—and Hermione privately wondered who they thought they were impressing, when not even a quarter of the rest of the students were also in attendance. 

She chose a seat on the opposite end of the table as the night before, telling herself that she wasn’t as much avoiding anyone (‘anyone’ really meaning Snape) as she was comforting herself with the close proximity of the High Table. Dumbledore was there, as was most of the rest of the faculty, and when she directed her gaze in his direction, he winked at her reassuringly. Hermione was again filled with a rush of love for the Headmaster of Hogwarts—whether in 1977 or in 1997 he was still one of the best people she’d ever known.

Thoughts of Dumbledore caused her to glance toward the Gryffindor table almost by reflex, and before she could look away, she saw a familiar face—and the back of someone she was sure she’d recognize, too. Hermione couldn’t force herself to look away, the curiosity at seeing what Remus Lupin had looked like, _did_ look like in 1977 was far too strong.

His face was smooth and unscarred—well, she reasoned, _mostly_ smooth; Sunday mornings seemed not to warrant a shave before breakfast. He was talking animatedly to the redhead sitting across from him, periodically tossing his head back to free his eyes from an errant lock of hair or to laugh. She hadn’t realized how grey his hair had gone in her time until she saw it in his, a thought that made her feel a little guilty. She considered herself his friend, after all. 

Hermione couldn’t see much of Lily—it _had_ to be Lily, she was sure of it—besides the back of her head, and as much as she wanted to keep looking in that direction, she was afraid of calling attention to herself. It wouldn’t do for the newest member of Slytherin House to be staring longingly at the Gryffindor table, after all…

=====

Remus Lupin laughed heartily as he reached for a pitcher of honey to pour on his porridge. Lily’s descriptions of an outing to Diagon Alley with James and his mother were classic, and worth getting up early for. She had finished her muffin quickly, moving her plate full of crumbs aside as she demonstrated Prongs’ package-laden walk from the merchant district to the nearest fireplace.

“That isn’t nearly as amusing as it could be,” he said around a mouthful of food. “You should stand up and do it.”

“Nice try, Moony,” Lily said with a grin. “A roomful of Slytherins and not much else, and you want me to stand up and start swaying around like a buffoon?” she had to laugh when his response to her comment was to wink at her broadly. “Not bloody likely!”

“I doubt it would do your reputation any damage,” he said with mock gallantry. Lupin looked to the faraway table of Slytherins. “Besides, only one of them is looking over here.”

It was the transfer student, her long brown hair held back with one hand as she tried to skin a banana with the other. She looked over at him again, the shock evident in her eyes even at this distance, as though she hadn’t expected him to notice her. They regarded each other across the room for a long moment, at the end of which she did something that surprised him greatly—she smiled. Surely she’d been told about the enmity between their houses? They’d had the whole night to indoctrinate her… Remus wondered what she’d think of the Gryffindor/Slytherin rivalry, having not participated in it for the six previous years like the rest of them. He smiled back as she gave up on her hair and started on the banana with both hands.

“She smiled at you,” remarked Lily, who’d shot a quick glance over her shoulder to see to whom he’d been referring. “Do I detect a Shakespearesque love story in the making?”

“Who?” teased Lupin, who had read his work since childhood, his blank expression reminding Lily of James’ reaction the first time she’d brought up the subject of sonnets. “Nah,” he shook his head. “She’s got too much hair—I like ‘em bald,” he explained in a rough accent.

Lily collapsed in laughter.

“So _that’s_ why you let James ask me out,” she joked.

=====

_That trip to Hogsmeade is going to have to happen sooner rather than later_ , Hermione told herself grimly. Her love for bananas was swiftly becoming frustration as she stripped sticky fruit out of her hair and cursed her lack of anything to hold the bushy mass back with. Almost half of the students had gone by now, and her end of the table was completely empty save for herself and an impossibly small-looking First Year sucking on a pineapple. Hermione smiled encouragingly at the girl, who just frowned in reply and turned her back.

 _How to make friends and influence people_ , Hermione thought wryly. _So much for House solidarity_. Another large group of students stood up and started for the double doors at the other side of the room, and Hermione decided that she couldn’t spend the whole morning wrapping her hair in banana skin and staring at Professor Lupin. _Remus_ , she told herself firmly as she stood up—but the thought of calling him that seemed so odd that it nearly sent her into a fit of laughter.

Hermione managed to get up and start for the door _without_ spending five minutes or so looking for a bag of books to take with her, an accomplishment that made her grin broadly at Lily Evans as she walked past. The surprised and pleased expression on the other girl’s face made Hermione feel almost at home.

She walked out into the courtyard, pulling her new sweater tighter around her shoulders as a chilly northern wind swept through. The friendly looks on both Lupin and Lily’s faces caused her to feel optimistic about her time here—and something else as well. Hermione felt an irrational giggle bubble up inside her as she thought about what the redheaded girl in the other room would think about having James Potter’s son. Sure, she knew some pretty awful things, but if she dwelled on them she’d never get through the next four months, she decided pragmatically. Not all the secrets she knew were bad, though, and as she tramped across the thick grass heading to the library, she amused herself with the thoughts of the good things she knew.

The last thing she thought of before settling herself in a corner of the library with a stack of books was the look on Hagrid’s face if she were to tell him that in 20 odd years he’d be a Hogwarts Professor.

=====

With their fingers stuffed desperately into their ears, Remus and Lily climbed through the portrait hole into the Gryffindor common room, earning themselves three pairs of strange looks from their friends. They didn’t have to explain, however.

“She's singing again?” Peter guessed. Lily nodded, grimacing.

“They need to invent some way to shut some portraits up,” remarked Sirius darkly. James didn’t comment, as his mouth was full of muffin. The three boys had their own private feast, complete with a pitcher of pumpkin juice and two platefuls of pastries.

“I see you’ve managed to reestablish your relationship with the house elves,” Lupin said to Potter.

“I don’t know why I even bothered to go to breakfast,” grumped Lily, plopping herself down on the couch beside James and stealing a crumb from his plate.

“Why _darling_ , did you miss me?” cooed James, wrapping an arm around her ostentatiously.

“No,” she said in an adoring voice, reaching around him for a raspberry tart. “They were out of tarts at our end of the table!” she said, biting into her prize with a sigh of ecstasy.

“How sweet of you,” Sirius laughed.

“You all missed a look at the new girl,” remarked Lupin from his lounging position on the floor.

“I _knew_ you liked her!” cried Lily.

“I don’t fancy her, I just thought her behavior was odd,” Remus said, completely undisturbed by her accusation and subsequent reaction to his denial. He noted her disappointment with a grin. “Sorry, Lils—no star-crossed romances to gloat over.”

“Star-crossed?” asked Peter.

“Transfer student was sorted to Slytherin,” Sirius said. 

“Maybe Snivellous will find true love,” quipped James.

=====

A few hours later, Hermione was feeling incredibly silly. She’d gone to the library—the mere thought of her intentions made her blush, now—so she could look up the events that happened in the 70’s in the books she’d known were there in the 90’s. Of course, they weren’t there, and even if they had been, they wouldn’t have had any information for her anyway. Time travel, she decided, took a more than a few days to get used to.

She cheered herself up by remembering what it was she’d been doing in the library right before her exploration of Dumbledore’s office—looking for pictures of the 1977 Quidditch Pitch. _Well, no need for pictures now_ , she thought to herself in satisfaction. Seeing no one in the immediate vicinity, Hermione permitted herself a rare luxury—she _ran_.

Ron and Harry were definitely right about their suspicions, she saw that the second she got there. There was simply nothing to climb—no trees, no observation tower, no power lines (Hermione’s analytical mind added this before she had a chance to really think about it). She walked along, eyes fixed on the airspace that one of the Gryffindors had undoubtedly floated in to take the picture of James. She wondered who it could have been; she couldn’t picture Professor ( _Remus_!) Lupin on a broom, but Sirius seemed like a likely choice. She didn’t know much about—

Hermione walked right into the person she was thinking of.

“Good Lord, I’m sorry,” she said, her eyes widening a bit when she saw who it was. Peter Pettigrew looked slightly winded, having about as much warning as Hermione had—his back had been turned. 

“Its nothing,” he said, bending over to tie the shoe he’d nearly tripped over when she unbalanced him. “No harm done.”

She stood still for a moment watching him, a myriad of emotions washing over her. Had he already begun his terrible work? Was he still deciding? What would tip the scales? Hermione saw movement in the corner of her eye, and looked back up at the spot above them to see what had caused it. There was nothing there.

“Must have been a bird,” she muttered to herself. Then, louder, “you’re all right, then?”

“No worries,” Pettigrew assured her, glancing up nervously at the area she’d been staring at.

=====

Sirius Black held onto the broom for dear life, having nearly fallen off when the new girl walked blindly into Wormtail. It didn’t help that the thing was shaking from Lupin’s laughter.

“I _told_ you we’re too big to do this anymore,” he scolded Moony, to no avail. “I’m sure she saw us, she was staring right at—”

“Are you sure nothing…fell out?” gasped out Remus, as he clutched at the Invisibility Cloak against the sudden wind. The glare he got in response was too much, and he started to laugh in earnest now that the brown-haired girl had wandered off in the other direction.

“Just—” Sirius stopped himself from screaming and continued in a more moderate voice, “just _land_ this thing before my fingers fall off.” As soon as the broom reached a safe enough altitude, Sirius let go and dropped onto his back, the landing made worse by the fact that Peter hadn’t been expecting to see him fall out of nothingness.

“Tough day for you, eh Wormtail?” he said, laughing as Peter managed a weak smile. Pettigrew chose to ignore this observation.

“Did you get a good look? For the picture, I mean,” he asked, referring to the reason they’d been flying under the cloak.

“It’ll be perfect,” asserted Lupin, as he folded the Invisibility Cloak and tucked it into his bag. “That is,” he said with a sly look at Sirius, “if Padfoot doesn’t get distracted by…anything.”

“Or any _one_ ,” laughed Peter, grasping his meaning.

“Anyone I’d like to be distracted by would undoubtedly be attending the match,” protested Sirius with a naughty grin. “Besides,” he said with a friendly nudge to the werewolf, “you saw her first.”

“Peter _talked_ to her first,” said Remus, passing the nudge along.

“If I were going to talk to a Slytherin girl, she wouldn’t be my first choice,” Peter surprised them by saying. “Come on,” he said, quickly changing the subject after he saw the speculative looks on his friends’ faces, “nearly time to eat.”

=====

Hermione was tempted to skip dinner, but didn’t think she was going to be able to last until breakfast—and she certainly couldn’t sneak into the kitchen to grab anything to eat. House Elves had long lifespans, and she didn’t think they would be able to understand what it would mean, seeing the same exact person twenty years later. The thought of Dobby trying earnestly to explain to her that the House Elves in the castle knew her already—this being years before she stepped into the mirror—well, she’d certainly think he was crazy.

Luckily this time she’d brought a book—the new Charms textbook that had caught her eye last night. Absently chewing on her Shepherd’s Pie, she traced out the correct movement with her wand for a defense charm she’d not recognized. 

Unexpectedly, the book was yanked out from underneath her hand and the sudden movement had her responding in reflex. Hermione traced out the movement she’d just been practicing and said the incantation for the stinging charm, pleased to see that it worked the first time she tried it. The thief dropped her book with a muffled curse, and she looked up into the steely eyes of Lucius Malfoy.

“That was a foolish thing to do,” he snapped at her, rubbing at the new sore spot.

“I would tend to agree,” she said coolly, retrieving her book with one hand, while the other still held her wand at the ready. He glared at her, settling himself in the seat opposite her when he realized he was garnering attention from many of the students nearby.

“Studying already?” he said, sneering at the textbook he’d wrested from her, eyes narrowing when he recognized the title. Hermione saw the dawning comprehension and decided to goad him a little.

“Yes—quite some nice defensive charms in there, wouldn’t you say?”

He seemed to ignore her words, choosing instead to say in a nasty tone, “Think you should have been in Ravenclaw, eh? Too late for _that_ , isn’t it?”

Hermione was confused, but didn’t allow herself to show it. _What a strange thing to say_ , she thought, recalling the movement she’d seen at the Slytherin table right before her unfortunate sorting. She filed this new development away to think on later.

“You have a very strange way of advertising your House pride,” she said with a quirked eyebrow.

“You as well—attacking your classmates.” He still held his injured hand; a red welt started to form on the back of it. _Great charm_ , she thought with satisfaction. The substance of what he’d just accused her with registered, and instead of saying anything, she simply stared at him, evenly. The scrutiny proved to be too much for him, and he stood up and stalked back to his clique, turning his back on her as if the inability to see his face was some sort of punishment.

_The apple didn’t fall far from the tree_ , she thought wryly. The new textbook beckoned, however, and she was soon wrapped up in her studies once again.

=====

The day had one more surprise in store. Hermione chose not to offend her Slytherin classmates by appearing in the common room—no first years were there, either, and she seriously wondered if it was a rule or terror that kept them away. The space was certainly _not_ the comfortable, homey place it was in the Gryffindor Tower. As she started down the steps to the girls’ dormitories, she wondered what kind of deterrent was in place to prevent the boys’ entry. As amusing as the thought was of Lucius Malfoy sliding down a sudden slope of steps ala Ron Weasley, she knew it wouldn’t work here—here, the stairs went down, not up. She shrugged. It was probably something horrible like electrocution or transfiguration.

If it was the latter, she sincerely hoped that it chose a white ferret for the entire Malfoy clan.

Upon entering the Seventh Year dorm, she immediately registered that something had changed. The beds seemed to be closer together than this morning, and her bed—Hermione did a quick turn to verify that it was missing, and found the bed and all her new belongings by themselves in a corner nearest the door. A large gap of space existed between it and the next nearest bed, as though the girls she’d met this morning wanted her to think she was contagious or something.

Hermione laughed out loud. The snobbish Slytherin Seventh Years had punished _themselves_ by limiting their own space, just to make her feel like an outsider? _They needn’t have bothered_ , she thought derisively, _not that I’ll tell THEM that_. If they wanted to give her extra breathing room, that was fine with her.

The short, girl named Olive popped her scarf-clad head into the room just then. Hermione assumed it was to gauge her reaction to their little prank. The slightly sheepish and apologetic look on her face told Hermione that she was most likely not the ringleader of this little stunt.

“Good evening,” Hermione said, jutting her chin out slightly and correcting her posture to assert her inner strength.

“Oh,” said Olive in a small voice, as if she’d expected Hermione to yell at her. “How are you…liking it…here…” she trailed off, looking over guiltily at Hermione’s things piled on her bed in the corner.

“Just fine,” Hermione said, changing her mind about the way she was going to react. “I thought I was going to have to _ask_ for more room.” She turned her back on Olive and started to arrange her clothes in the trunk. Hermione heard a very soft-spoken ‘oh,’ from the other girl but didn’t turn to acknowledge it. She refused to allow herself to get upset at this new development—after all, she had no particular attachment to any of the items in this room, barring her schoolwork. That she could take with her everywhere, and often did, anyway.

Hermione decided to go to sleep early. She had no intention of giving each of her Slytherin classmates the satisfaction of seeing her reaction to their prank, one by one. Besides, if this was to be indicative of her experience in Slytherin, she would need her rest.


	9. Making Friends and Influencing People

  
“Do the thing you fear to do and keep on doing it…that is the quickest and surest way ever yet discovered to conquer fear.”   
- _Dale Carnegie_

 

Word must have gotten around about what she’d done to Lucius Malfoy, for when she sat down at breakfast, no one sat within two spaces of her on any side. That suited Hermione just fine, as she told herself firmly that the best way to prevent herself from changing history was not to interact with anyone. The truth was—it hurt, and her typical way of dealing with being hurt was to try her best to ignore the feeling and bury herself in studies.

This morning, it was her Arithmancy textbook, a last-minute decision based on something her mother was fond of reminding her. Dr. Granger had told her many times that students often unconsciously tell themselves ‘just remember this for the test’ and then they forget the material entirely afterwards. Hermione didn’t think that applied much to wizard studies, considering that she had never felt inclined to practice her Muggle schoolwork outside of school, but loved to do so with witchcraft. Not as much for Arithmancy, however—it was not as easy to ‘practice’ as something like Potions was (granted one had all the ingredients, of course), and thus, here she was, trying to refresh her memory for class in a few hours. Her first class, however, was Charms, presumably taught by Professor Flitwick. 

Hermione finished up her breakfast—this time fully enjoying a banana as she’d braided her bushy hair and it had actually stayed back, blessedly. She supposed it was a good thing she knew her way around, because no one from Slytherin House had ever bothered to tell her where anything was. She wondered what they would do when they saw she was the first to class, instead of showing up hopelessly late and flustered. The thought made her grin, clasp her things to her chest more closely, and hurry along the corridor. She was so focused on her goal of showing up her detractors that she didn’t even notice when she passed Sirius Black and Remus Lupin on their way to History of Magic.

=====

“All he can talk about is this year’s Quidditch team,” groaned Lupin. “Be glad you fell asleep early.” He and Sirius were heading to class and discussing James Potter’s obsession with winning the Cup on their last year at Hogwarts.

“I am, but, unfortunately, while you were playing Prefect, James was begging me to take a spot on the team if he couldn’t find anyone else suitable,” groaned Sirius, wincing as he remembered the promise wrung from him after two hours of pleading from his black-haired friend.

“You didn’t agree…” Remus said with raised eyebrows.

“I didn’t have much choice.”

“You might have to go about recruiting players, then,” laughed Lupin. “I know you like to spend your time during the games looking at more interesting things than the Quaffle.”

Sirius’ grin contained a hint of a leer as they crossed the hallway, nearly running into a slight figure in Slytherin colors clutching a book bag. As she passed them, her hair fell loose from the braid and curled around her face in a way that was almost attractive. Sirius felt a strange compulsion to help her push it away from her eyes, but the girl passed them too quickly for him to do more than stand still and watch her. He was brought back to earth by a nudge from Lupin.

“I thought you said she wasn’t distracting,” he teased, shoving Black’s dropped textbook into his friend’s arms and leading him into the History of Magic classroom.

“Oh, _that’s_ the new transfer student?” Sirius said, trying to sound disinterested.

“You saw her yesterday, Sirius—don’t you remember? Or were you too distracted by—”

“I wasn’t distracted!” he protested hotly.

“That’s why you dropped your book,” Lupin nodded.

“Her hair just sort of…exploded right in front of me,” Sirius explained, lamely. 

“Naturally,” Remus said comfortingly. “Sit down, Padfoot.”

Sirius realized he was standing in the middle of the room, with his fellow classmates looking on. 

He sat.

=====

Charms was actually quite pleasant. Owing to the fact that they were N.E.W.T.-level courses, the classes were smaller—and, more importantly, filled with people who actually _wanted_ to be there. Hermione counted about 11 students, the majority of those being Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw. She recognized Cassia, who clearly recognized her as well, as she sat as far away from Hermione as the classroom allowed. Just before the bell rang, a tall girl in scarlet and gold school robes rushed in and sat next to her—Lily Evans.

Hermione felt at the same time elated and full of dread. She so desperately wanted to get to know the people she only knew of, but was terrified that she would be sent back to find her own future in terrible shape. She blamed the movie _Back to the Future_ for her anxiety, and after resolutely ignoring her inner voice’s concerns, she turned to face Lily.

“Just made it!” Lily said happily, adjusting her collar primly and completely disregarding the fact that her hair had mostly come loose from its bun. Hermione had a hard time thinking of her as Harry’s mother. She almost replied with ‘At least Professor Flitwick isn’t as strict as McGonagall,’ but caught herself just in time. She wasn’t supposed to know anyone here, after all! Instead, she just nodded pleasantly, unable to say anything else as Professor Flitwick began the lesson.

It turned out that they were to pair off and practice some of the more important charms they’d learned in the previous years at Hogwarts. Hermione told herself that even if she hadn’t have attended school the past six years, she wouldn’t have neglected her education, and therefore it was only natural for her to know every one of them. The other girl seemed to have no problem pairing up with a Slytherin, making Hermione wonder if it was her own newness to the school to which she owed her good fortune, or if it was in Lily’s nature to be friendly. Either way, the redhead was good at Charms. If it hadn’t have been for their DA meetings, Hermione was sure she’d not have been able to dodge as many of the offensive charms they practiced.

In a way, it made her feel a lot better about the original members of the Order of the Phoenix.

Hermione and Lily finished the round of charms they were asked to practice a lot earlier than the other students. Instead of going over the same spells again, they both decided to sit and chat. 

“So, where did you go to school before this?” Lily asked politely. Hermione answered with the lie that she and Dumbledore had decided on—but altered it slightly at the last minute. She didn’t want to let anyone know she was Muggle-born just yet…she was getting bad enough treatment from the Slytherins as it was.

“Well, my parents didn’t like the idea of sending me to a boarding school—neither of them had gone to one,” which was true, but not in the way that Lily would understand it—she would probably naturally assume Hermione’s parents were magical. “They were so adamant about it that Professor Dumbledore offered to have a tutor assigned to me, so I wouldn’t miss anything.” Lily looked surprised, but not disbelieving. _One hurdle crossed_ , Hermione said to herself in relief. “I’m guessing you don’t get transfer students very often,” she laughed.

“You could tell?” Lily’s answering giggle was endearing.

“So, when are you going to remind me that we’re not supposed to fraternize?” Hermione teased, pointing to Lily’s prominent Gryffindor scarf. To her surprise, Lily drew herself up proudly.

“I think that’s nonsense,” she said in a serious voice. “We all work together out in the real world, there’s no reason to make us enemies in school.” 

Hermione could tell that this was not a new issue for Miss Evans. The other girl was almost shaking, so strongly did she believe in what she was saying.

“I agree,” Hermione said, feeling incredibly guilty as she did so. How often did she distrust a fellow student just because of their House? She smiled wryly, supposing that it wasn’t as bad a thing if this experience changed _her_ , as long nothing else changed. She turned back to Lily who had sighed resignedly.

“I wish everyone I liked felt the same way,” she said with a small frown. At Hermione’s questioning look, she explained, “My boyfriend and his friends have so many ‘reasons’ that they distrust any Slytherin they come across.” She shrugged; it was obviously an old battle of hers. “I’m afraid that after nearly seven years here, old habits die hard.”

“Well,” offered Hermione, “good intentions do more than pave the road to hell—sometimes they really do have the power to change things.” Lily looked startled.

“I thought that was just a Muggle saying!”

Hermione tried not to wince—this business of secrets wasn’t something she was good at. She leaned over to Lily, trying to convey that what she was about to say wasn’t for everyone’s ears.

“It runs in the family—but from what I’ve seen about my new House, I don’t think I should make that public knowledge…”

Lily nodded sympathetically.

“I’m Muggle-born,” she said, pleasing Hermione by _not_ looking as though she regretted it. Lily Evans was one of the few witches that Hermione knew was Muggle-born, and all evidence showed that she was very gifted. It would have been very disappointing to Hermione if she’d turned out to be ashamed of her birth.

Their conversation was cut off by Professor Flitwick resuming control of the class. They adjourned shortly thereafter, and Lily turned to Hermione with a smile.

“Which do you have next? I have N.E.W.T. Transfiguration—”

Hermione interrupted her with a cry of pleasure. “I do, too!”

“Shall we, then?” Lily looked over at Hermione and winked, grasping her arm to walk out together. The two of them had to work hard at keeping their composure when they were passed by Cassia, the stuck-up girl who Hermione was certain had been the one to head up the movement of all of her things in the dormitory.

The patrician blonde looked like she’d just eaten a live chocolate frog.

=====

“Sometimes I wonder if _I’m_ going to fall asleep in that class and wake up a ghost,” griped Sirius.

“It’s not _that_ bad, if you pay attention,” objected Remus.

“I beg to differ, Moony—it IS that bad. If he would just talk faster—” Sirius threw up his hands.

“If he talked faster, you would have more material on each test,” his friend pointed out. The only response was a groan. “What’s next?” Lupin asked.

“Like _I_ know?”

Remus had to laugh. Sirius was so irrepressibly irresponsible in such an endearing way that it made it almost impossible to be upset with him. He opened up a parchment from his textbook and checked.

“We both have N.E.W.T. Transfiguration next,” Lupin said, tossing his hair out of his eyes and grinning. Sirius grinned back.

“D’you think McGonagall expected the four of us to get O.W.L.s in Transfiguration?” he asked, his eyes sparkling with their secret.

“Not a chance,” answered the werewolf. “You know you’re going to have to pay attention in class, this time, Padfoot.”

Sirius feigned a wounded expression.

“Remus, I _always_ pay attention!”

“I meant to the coursework,” Remus said, shaking his head.

“Oh...” Sirius replied, his tone of voice speaking volumes.

“Looks like it wasn’t Moony or Wormtail with a thing for transfer students.”

James had came up behind them to rest an arm on each of their shoulders. He nodded toward the doorway to Professor McGonagall’s classroom, adding, “It was Lily we had to watch out for!”

Lily and the Slytherin transfer student were talking animatedly to each other as they waited on the threshold of the classroom. They seemed oblivious to the shocked reactions of those around them that a Gryffindor and a Slytherin were talking—much less smiling and laughing with each other.

“Do you want me to challenge her to a duel for stealing your girlfriend?” asked Sirius, reaching for his wand.

“Put that away, you dog!” Lupin swatted at his friend, not wanting to be chastised by the severe McGonagall for performing magic in the hallways.

“Ah, Moony—you’re such a _good_ prefect!” exclaimed James, stopping just short of pinching the taller boy on his cheek.

Sirius smiled at his friends’ antics, grateful for Lupin’s quick thinking as Minerva McGonagall rounded the corner to let them into her classroom.

Once there, he hung back for a little while, deciding where to sit. Choosing a seat here had more to do with who he wanted to be looking at for the entirety of the school year, and less to do with partnering—transfiguration was hardly the kind of discipline that a Professor wished her students to practice on one another. The class had a fair number of students for an N.E.W.T. course, but that fact had nothing to do with a limit in the degree of difficulty, that was for certain. Professor McGonagall was strict, but she had a talent for making sure one knew everything she wanted them to by the end of the year—or else.

In the end, he picked a spot that was sufficiently far from the front of the room, in close proximity to the other Marauders, and had an excellent view of the new student.

He told himself this was merely because he worried about her influence on Lily Evans. 

Halfway through class he found himself looking at her, time and again. The day before, he’d claimed that she wasn’t in any way distracting, but he had to admit that he’d been wrong—there was something about her. It was clear to Sirius that she _loved_ Transfiguration—she positively _glowed_ —and it changed the way she looked to him. Instead of a half-frightened, timid looking thing wrapped in Slytherin colors, she was now a vibrant, confident young woman…wrapped in Slytherin colors.

“Would you like to be alone with your thoughts, Padfoot?” someone asked, near his ear. It was Lupin.

“Well, at least I’m paying attention to _something_ , right?” he shot back over his shoulder.

“Just remember what kinds of detentions McGonagall gives,” was the quiet reply.

That was all Sirius needed to redirect his thoughts. The last detention he’d gotten from his Head of House was too awful to contemplate. It had taken him almost a week to get the smell of dung out of his shoes.

=====

It seemed to Hermione that the rest of the day passed in almost the blink of an eye. She had one other Monday class with Lily, and she gathered from their many conversations over the course of the day that they would probably have more. Even the inevitable fact that they couldn’t spend mealtimes together (even though quite a few cross-House groups spent lunchtimes and even suppertimes in each other’s company, the backlash for both of them would have barely been worth it, they’d decided) hadn’t spoiled the day for her.

She’d walked out of her last class and said goodbye to her new friend only to walk a few spaces and collapse onto a bench, leaning her head against the cool stone wall.

_I am friends with Harry’s mother_ , she thought, incredulously. _GOOD friends!_

She could barely believe it, after all that had happened since Saturday. Hermione had never really been close with other girls, and getting to talk to another friendly, school-oriented witch (Divination did _not_ count) who was also Muggle-born was a treat. The best part was, she got to hear a little bit about the Marauders—not that Lily referred to them as that; Hermione was certain it was a private nickname. It was like the best of both worlds. It couldn’t do any harm to be friends with someone who— _DON’T think about it, don’t think about it_ —she would never meet in the future. She sighed. Even the act of trying to avoid those kinds of thoughts was sobering. Lifting her heavy bag, she made her way to the dormitory, a substantial piece of bread filched from lunchtime in one of the pockets. She was much too excited to eat a full meal, anyway.

When she walked into the common room, however, something felt wrong. Eunae Zabini and Cassia Crawley—Hermione had learned the last name of all four of her fellow Seventh Year Slytherins in various classes throughout the day—were sitting by the fire, and the second she entered they straightened as though they’d been waiting for her. Hermione simply ignored them. When she walked into their dormitory, however, she knew immediately that this was what they’d been waiting for.

Her things were gone.

All of them.

“I believe you’re looking for the First Year dormitories,” Eunae said from the doorway, barely concealed triumph in her voice.

“We pulled a few strings,” contributed Cassia with saccharine sweetness.

“I’m sure you’ll feel _much_ more comfortable there,” Zabini finished.

Hermione turned to face them, her back straight, a carefully blank expression on her face. She had learned, after many years of bickering with Draco Malfoy, that someone who has done something they’re proud of will falter if it is not acknowledged somehow. So, she simply stared at the two of them steadily, not changing her body position or facial expression until Cassia finally looked down and brushed an imaginary piece of lint from her robes. Eunae frowned slightly, glancing over at the blonde girl with a look that clearly said that she’d weakened their position.

“You’re probably right,” Hermione finally said in a hard voice. “The First Years probably haven’t had six years of bad training to go on.” She brushed past the two girls, inwardly trembling like a leaf from the experience. Usually she had Harry and Ron to stand with her in such a confrontation, and she was genuinely surprised to have managed to hold her ground without them.

_They think they’ve weakened me_ , she realized, _but I’ve actually realized I’m far stronger than I thought._


	10. Trouble is Brewing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “If the essence of Severus Snape is light blue, I’m the Minister of Magic,” Remus said, under his breath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my FAVORITE chapter early-on! Enjoy!!

  
“The meeting of two personalities is like the contact of two chemical substances; if there is any reaction, both are transformed.”  
- _Carl Jung_

 

The next few days seemed to fly for Hermione. Though it galled her to have to head into the First Year dormitories every night, she comforted herself with the fact that she’d gotten three very sound nights’ sleep out of it. The little eleven year olds didn’t have much to say to her, but they didn’t _dare_ touch her things, and they wouldn’t have dreamt of pulling any pranks on her. The Seventh Year girls wouldn’t have been caught dead in the First Year dorms—that was the whole point of placing Hermione there—so she didn’t have to worry about them, either.

So in reality, all the move had done was make Hermione feel safer. She decided that she actually preferred the Slytherin class of 1978 to the vicious nature of Pansy Parkinson and Draco Malfoy. _Their_ acts of ill-will actually had some sort of long-lasting effect.

She wondered if the step up in nastiness had anything to do with Severus Snape’s addition to the faculty.

=====

Her classes weren’t anywhere near as repetitive as she’d expected; lesson plans changed a lot in twenty years, and though she was well ahead of everyone due to having taken the first half of her Seventh Year already, she wasn’t so far that she was bored. It turned out that she also had N.E.W.T. Potions with Lily, as well as History of Magic—which all students had to take, no matter what they got on their O.W.L.s. She didn’t get to sit with Lily in Potions, however.

Lily had a close friend in Ravenclaw (luckily for James, it was a girl—Lily joked that James was incredibly jealous, but not in a bad way) that she’d partnered with throughout their years at Hogwarts. Hermione was disappointed, having heard much from Professor Slughorn in the future about Lily’s potions prowess, but Hermione had every confidence in her own ability, and thus wasn’t too upset. She sat next to a timid looking Hufflepuff whose name turned out to be Lorelei, and they got along nicely. Their Tuesday class had turned out quite well, and when Hermione walked into Potions on Thursday, she found she was actually looking forward to it.

Potions, she decided, was _much_ more fun when it wasn’t being taught by Severus Snape.

=====

“Today,” Professor Horace Slughorn said pleasantly, “I’m going to teach you about power.” His gaze swept the room as he gauged the reaction of each of his students. Fully half of them had confused looks on their faces, their bewilderment finally voiced by the girl to Hermione’s left.

“Sir,” Lorelei Carew spoke up hesitantly. “What does a _potion_ have to do with power?” As Slughorn nodded at her reassuringly, Hermione could hear Severus Snape at the table beside her.

“Idiot,” he muttered derisively. She hoped her partner hadn’t heard Snape’s comment; Lorelei was not the most confident person she’d ever met. In fact, she thought even Neville Longbottom might be able to teach her a few things about confidence. Hermione shoved that thought aside and redirected her attention to the front of the room.

“…excellent question!” Slughorn was saying. “Power, my dear, is quite a bit about control. If you control someone or something, you have power over them.”

Hermione couldn’t help thinking that it was singularly appropriate to have the Head of Slytherin giving a lecture about power.

“Can anyone name a few potions that control the people that drink them?” The question brought a familiar rush of potential answers to Hermione’s mind, and she thrust her hand in the air in response to the internal and external stimuli. Slughorn beamed with pride and pointed in her direction, causing Hermione to feel a little guilty, as she felt no affinity with Slytherin House whatsoever.

“One example would be Veritaserum, sir,” she offered.

“Ah, yes!” Slughorn flicked his wand over his shoulder and the word appeared on one side of the blackboard behind him. “Veritaserum is, as the Latin suggests, truth serum. One who imbibes even a small amount of it will be compelled to answer any question truthfully, no matter what their personal feelings are about divulging the answer.” He crossed his arms over his barrel-like chest and nodded soberly. “A very subtle kind of power, information. Not everyone grasps that about Veritaserum—particularly not as the first suggestion! Well done, Miss James. Five points to Slytherin.” 

Hermione forced a smile. She hadn’t realized what was likely to happen if she answered questions truthfully in class. _I just earned Slytherin HOUSE POINTS?!_ The worst part about it was that she couldn’t imagine not trying to contribute to class; she’d probably earn _more_ if she had to be here for the better part of four months. She looked back up at the professor just as he added ‘Befuddlement Potion’ to the list under Veritaserum.

The next suggestion made her jump in her seat—not for the suggestion itself, but the voice belonging to the one whose suggestion it was.

“Gregory’s Unctuous Unction?” Sirius Black suggested with the barest hint of a laugh in his voice. The sound of it made Hermione simultaneously blush, grin stupidly, and feel as if she wanted to cry. She could only understand the latter reaction, but was saved from being questioned about her behavior as the room erupted in laughter, Slughorn included.

“Quite clever, my boy—quite clever. I’ll give you three points for Gryffindor for that one. Makes you feel as if the giver is your dearest friend, that. Another unique suggestion.” 

The professor went on, but Hermione was focused on the sounds behind her, as Sirius and Remus Lupin were whispering excitedly. Almost against her will, she turned to look, and caught Black looking in her direction. He winked, and Hermione turned beet red and whipped her head to face front so quickly she almost hurt herself. _WHY did I do that_? She had no idea. Hermione missed about ten more minutes of the lesson examining why it was she would have such a reaction to someone she’d known for years. She ignored the fact that the Sirius she’d known was as close to broken as anyone she had ever met, and _this_ Sirius was handsome, intelligent, and charismatic. 

“Love potions!” Slughorn boomed, smiling at Hermione and causing an icy wave of panic to course through her veins—did he somehow hear her thoughts? She shook her head firmly and ordered herself to _pay bloody attention_ to the lesson.

“One of the most powerful of mind-altering potions that exists! The strongest of these would be the Amortentia potion.”

Hermione smiled. She recognized the potion name, and guessed where the lesson was headed at this point. She found it very curious that the introduction Professor Slughorn used was so vastly different than the one he’d used in her class in the future. Then she recalled something that Harry had said about Slughorn—that he had an intense fear of Lord Voldemort. It was entirely possible that his change of lesson plan had to do with this. After all, you hardly want to be encouraging your students to pursue power if you might have had a hand in increasing the power of wizardkind’s greatest enemy.

With a broad smile and an expansive hand gesture, Professor Slughorn was calling his students over to a simmering cauldron near his desk. Hermione recognized the potion as Amortentia. As the students crowded around to sniff the mixture—the aroma was different for each person, according to what attracted them the most—Hermione found herself quite close to the stand it rested on, surrounded by her classmates.

=====

Sirius had every intention of remaining at his table and avoiding the crush of students at the front of the class, but Remus scratched that idea by making the chair he was sitting on disappear. He’d managed to stand up, somehow—mostly owing to the fact that he’d been resting his head and arms on the table in front of him, and thus had maintained a good enough grip that he hadn’t toppled over and looked like a fool. Sirius didn’t say anything to Lupin, deciding instead to get him back some time later in the day when the other boy had forgotten. Besides, doing something malicious to one’s lab partner generally meant that one’s assignment would be ruined—not that Remus seemed to subscribe to that same way of thinking.

The cauldron was already surrounded by students, so he hung back and watched the reactions as each self-consciously took a whiff of the concoction inside. Sirius had heard of the potion before, and thought the whole idea of it smelling attractive was a little far-fetched, even for something magical. After all, even _he_ didn’t yet know what he found the most appealing, so how could an inert mixture of ingredients? Sirius was prepared to be proven wrong, however, and given that no one seemed inclined to leave the general area, he had to admit that there must have been a reason.

The ‘line’ of people waiting had turned into an oval, with the students who had already been nearest the potion rejoining at the end after taking their sniff. A couple had gotten trapped inside the procession, and one of them was the new girl, whose name he’d discovered earlier that week—Hermia James. She was wearing a plain black school robe, her hair in a very dubious looking bun that threatened to loose itself at any moment. For some reason, he found that incredibly endearing: the fact that her hair seemed to have a mind of its own, when its owner had (from what he’d observed so far) such organized study habits.

As he neared the cauldron and Miss James, he saw that she’d managed to play off her inability to return to her seat by attempting to categorize the odors she would experience in the fumes of the potion. When she set her quill down to adjust the angle of her parchment, he noticed that her quill hand sported an ink stain—a sure sign that she spent quite a bit of her day writing. He smiled as he took another step closer to her; the girl must take notes about _everything_.

Sirius Black was a typical teenage boy. The natural conclusion of a thought like that… _naturally_ had him grinning. At that precise moment, the brown knot of hair at the object of his scrutiny’s neck let loose, and a soft scent of wisteria wafted to his nostrils just as he leaned over to smell the pot of Amortentia.

The gentle aroma was maddening, seeming to dissipate just when he attempted to get a stronger impression of it. It was mixed with the tangy odor of quill ink, along with a brisk smell that he identified immediately—fresh parchment.

Sirius was disappointed. Everything he could smell in this ‘magical’ potion was easily explainable—and nearby. _So much for figuring out what my ‘true love’ smells like_ , he thought to himself.

“Move along, Mr. Black,” said a teasing feminine voice behind him. He turned to grin at Lily Evans.

“Why? You already know what James smells like,” he said in a voice rich with innuendo. She swatted him with the sleeve of her robe in reply. On the way back to his seat, Sirius turned to look at the front of the room, not really sure why. He caught the eye of Hermia James, who was staring at him with an oddly vulnerable look of confusion on her face, the parchment and quill forgotten on the floor.

=====

Hermione’s table was quite close to the stand on which the potion sat, and so she managed to get there ahead of the group. Unfortunately, everyone formed a sort of ring around her, trapping her inside—and she was disinclined to try pushing her way through to get out. The ‘line’ to experience the potion’s effects had formed up beside her, so she felt like she would be cutting in to lean over and smell the fumes from where she was. Out of habit, she’d brought a piece of parchment and her quill with her, and so rather than look like she really was trapped beside the cauldron, she began to make a list that she could fill out when she got the chance to sniff at the mixture.

What she hadn’t bargained on was the fact that she knew a couple of the students in the class. Even though they were now all the same age, she still felt self-conscious standing in the middle of a group of people she knew as adults. Severus Snape brushed past her with a sneer, barely bothering to sniff the potion before he stalked back to his table. Hermione saw Lily and her Ravenclaw friend near Professor Slughorn’s desk, waiting for their turn. They smiled at each other warmly before Hermione turned back to her paper; Remus Lupin was standing behind Lily, and as much as she wanted to look at him and categorize the things that were different about him in this time, Hermione knew she shouldn’t stare.

As Hermione leaned back over her parchment, however, she nearly groaned in frustration. Her _wretched_ hair! Before she had a chance to rewrap it, the whole mass let go from the bun and ghosted around her face like a tangled halo. She bent over, meaning to twist it back into shape, but her position granted her a faceful of Amortentia fumes.

It was actually quite lovely, like a spicy kind of aftershave, but nothing she’d ever experienced before. The prevailing scent almost made her blush…it was so— _manly_ , and not at all like what she would have expected. The quill drifted from her fingers as she allowed herself another inhale, trying to identify the components as if it were some kind of experiment instead of a sensory description of her perfect man. The other odor she’d been trying to identify finally came to her—leather. Leather mixed with evergreen, she decided, finally standing up and almost running into the back of Sirius Black.

The parchment fell to the floor, completely unnoticed by Hermione, who was in a state of almost shock.

She recognized him completely, even as his younger self and faced away from her. That in itself wasn’t what was so shocking, however. She’d come close enough to him that she could smell a very subtle scent on his clothes—evergreen.

She was still trying to process the meaning of this as he shot a grin over his shoulder at Lily and moved to take his seat again. Just at that moment he caught her staring in his direction and she was treated to a very delightful view of his rich grey eyes as the sun dropped through a window in the room and over his face.

Hermione collected herself and wormed her way through the remaining students to settle back at her table, just about convincing herself that the evergreen had been a fluke, a remnant of her proximity to Sirius.  
She conveniently forgot that she knew he had liked to dress full in leather when he went out on his flying motorbike. It probably didn’t have anything to do with the potion, anyway.

Probably.

=====

Sirius Black had an idea.

A _very_ tempting idea.

During the time the rest of the class took to take their seats again, he had been searching for the best way to punish Lupin for the chair prank. Once everyone had been settled, however, Professor Slughorn explained what they were going to spend the remainder of the class time doing—and that gave Sirius a very interesting idea.

The professor told them that he wanted every member of his NEWT-level Potions class to understand what it was like to be controlled by a potion, even for a short time. Therefore, they were each to concoct their own version of a much milder love potion, to be traded with their lab partner and ingested. Since the class ended an hour before suppertime, Slughorn didn’t anticipate this interfering with anything important, merely an experience he wanted them all to undergo.

Sirius thought that being in love with Moony for even a half hour would be incredibly boring. However, there was a room full of people to choose from—and he knew an incantation that transferred flask contents.

While the room was busy with the sounds of people bustling around retrieving the more rare ingredients from Slughorn’s private storeroom, Sirius took out his wand and pointed it at two similarly shaped containers on his desk.

“ _Transfunde te ipsum_!” he said, quietly. To his intense satisfaction, the contents of the two glass vessels switched neatly.

“Excellent,” he said, pleased.

“What did you say?” asked Remus, handing him the frozen Ashwinder eggs required for the potion.

“Oh, nothing.”

=====

Hermione beamed with pride. Her potion was simmering busily, the exact color and consistency that the recipe called for. Not only that, but it turned out that though Lorelei was of a nervous constitution, she was in no way a bad student, and her mixture was only a step behind Hermione’s. That was a great comfort to Hermione, considering that it wasn’t her own potion she’d have to drink.

Two minutes passed, and the little whistle that she’d transfigured into an alarm clock let out a tiny hoot, telling her that it was time to tip some into the flask that the Professor had provided. Rather than allowing them to ‘imprint’ the whole cauldron—thus providing large amounts of personalized Love Potion—they were to pull out one hair after pouring a measured dose into their flasks, and insert the hairs before placing the stopper. She did so, feeling more than a little pleased when her potion immediately turned a deep gold color. _I guess there’s more than one way to display House pride_ , she thought to herself, warmed by the thought that she was Gryffindor to the roots of her hair. A few short minutes later, and Lorelei shyly handed her a flask filled with a powder blue potion.

Hermione looked over her shoulder to Lily’s table, grinning as the redhead gestured to the flask in her partner’s hand, which held a deep crimson-colored liquid. Lily looked away before Hermione could point to her own gold one, which was just as well. As she looked around the room, she noticed that most of the students had seemed to follow the current trend; potions of green, blue, gold, and silver were being handed ‘round.

Then, she heard it.

A very quiet spell, but Hermione recognized the words as an incantation the second she heard them. She looked around surreptitiously, trying to find the culprit without tipping him to the fact that she’d heard anything. It had definitely been a male voice, of that she was certain. The second circuit of the room her eyes made caught a discrepancy. The potion on the corner of the desk beside hers wasn’t the same color as it had been. In place of Snape’s black-colored potion on Harold Ryan-Marks’ desk was a pearly-white potion in an identical container.

Hermione knew she didn’t have a photographic memory, but there was simply no way that Severus Snape’s potion would be pristine white in color. That coupled with the fact that she was sure she’d heard an incantation—  
There it was again.

The sound had come from behind her, but this time when she’d checked Harold’s desk, the potion there was _brown_. Hermione leaned forward in a way she hoped didn’t look suspicious, trying to see what color potion Snape had at his desk. It was the white one. Something was _definitely_ going on. Right in front of her, Snape’s and Ryan-Marks’ potions had been switched. She grabbed her quill and marked down the colors of the potions she’d seen, and whom she guessed they might belong to. While her head was down, she heard the voice again, this time a bit louder…and it sounded vaguely familiar. Hard to tell though, from a whisper—

Her potion was different.

Instead of the powder blue potion that Lorelei had handed her, she had…Snape’s potion. A terrible suspicion formed in her head, and rested her head on her hand in order to prevent herself from looking behind her. Hermione listened so hard that she expected to feel her ears growing, and sure enough, she heard it again.

“ _Transfunde te ipsum_!”

This time she knew it was Sirius, and his whisper was barely a whisper at all; he was laughing too hard. She reached up and untwisted her hair from the bun she’d forced it into, and then carefully fussed with it in a way that enabled her to look over her shoulder at Lupin and Sirius’ table. In front of Sirius was a red potion, and in front of Remus sat the powder blue potion that had been filched from her desk.

That _GIT._

_If he expects me to drink the Essence of Severus Snape_ , she thought to herself furiously, _he’s got another thing coming._

The way she’d phrased it in her own head gave her an idea. The more she thought about it, the more she liked it. Picking her wand up from her table, she turned her head slightly to look at Sirius again. He was faced away from her, talking to Lupin.

“ _Transfunde te ipsum!_ ” she said, trying to aim her wand in a nonchalant manner. It would be too ironic if _she_ were the one caught switching potions, after all. No one noticed, however, and silently the potion in front of Hermione turned red. Without allowing herself to think about what she was doing, she turned to look at the table next to hers—and couldn’t believe her good luck. Harold Ryan-Marks was out of his seat, replacing the excess ingredients he and Snape hadn’t used during class. In another minute, Harold’s potion was back to the pearly-white one that she’d noticed at first, and Snape’s was brown. Harold sort of struck Hermione as a brown kind of person—more so than Lupin or Sirius had, anyway—so she breathed a sigh of relief that Snape wouldn’t be involving himself in this mess.

Now came a problem. They only had about five more minutes left before they were expected to drink their potions, and Hermione could only see two more switches to make. That meant that Harold would end up with Lorelei’s… _oh, sod it_ , she thought, and switched Harold’s pearl-colored potion with Remus’s. The werewolf was also up returning ingredients, and Sirius was out of his seat as well, crouched behind Lily’s table whispering to her. Hermione couldn’t imagine her friend condoning a prank like this, and figured that wasn’t what their conversation was about. 

Just as Professor Slughorn was preparing to stand up, she cast the spell one last time, transferring the red-colored potion that she was sure had come from Sirius into an empty container that she tucked into her bag.

Her heart was pounding a mile a minute. She could hardly believe what she’d done—even if she _had_ done it to prevent an unholy mess. The pearly liquid finally made sense to her as Lupin seated himself once more—it was the color of the moon. That meant that Sirius’ original intent was for _Snape_ to drink it… Even Hermione knew that Snape was terrified of Lupin in school; Harry had told her of the prank that had been pulled on their professor, during which he’d seen what Remus looked like completely transformed. Hermione guessed that she’d underestimated just how much the Marauders hated Snape—it was a dirty trick, what Sirius had just tried to do. She tried not to stare at the black potion waiting for Sirius to come back from his chat with Lily. Hermione thought it was poetic justice, actually.

=====

Remus shook his head as he walked back from the storeroom. Sirius had muttered something about switching potions, and the werewolf really did not want to have to deal with his friend’s childishness today. When he reached his seat, however, the potion sitting on his desk was his own. He recognized it immediately, the ache at the pit of his stomach returning as he looked at the shimmering white color of the liquid. It was incredibly depressing to him: the thought that his very essence was corrupted by his affliction. A thought came to him just then—there really was no amusing reason why Sirius would have given him his own potion.

Lupin’s eyebrows furrowed as he looked up, seeing the brown flask on the edge of Snape’s desk. Now he was _really_ confused, as the only two people he’d imagine Sirius playing tricks on would be himself or Snape—and he had watched the Ryan-Marks boy’s potion turn brown the instant he placed a hair in his container. What was even more puzzling was the fact that the potion sitting on Marks’ desk was _light blue_. 

“If the essence of Severus Snape is light blue, I’m the Minister of Magic,” Remus said, under his breath. A movement at the front of the room caught his eye, and he looked over to the left a bit to see the Slytherin transfer student, Miss James; she was doing something odd with her hair. The new girl placed her flask in her lap—Remus couldn’t see what color it was—and formed her hair into a tight knot at the base of her neck. She shot a glance over her shoulder and started in shock at finding him looking at her. He raised his eyebrows at her, playing on a hunch. She shrugged at him, picking up the container from her lap in a way that still concealed the color of the liquid inside. Then she tipped her head in a gesture that pointed to the other corner of the room.

Sirius was there, whispering something to Lily.

Lupin’s mouth dropped open. He shook his head at the girl, who lifted the hand holding her potion and shook it, confirming his suspicions.

She seemed to be implying that she’d meddled with Sirius’ potion switch…

“Something wrong, Moony?” Sirius said, dropping into his chair like a natural disaster. Remus shook his head dumbly as Professor Slughorn called for them all to drink their potions. He was still trying to process the information he’d just gotten.

“Bottoms up!” Sirius picked up the potion on his desk without even looking at it, apparently waiting for Snape to down his first. A sick dread crept up on Lupin. _She was right!_ The second that Snape had tipped the contents of his flask to his lips, Sirius unstoppered his bottle. Remus looked at it and reached out to stop him—he was almost too late.

“What’s wrong? You should drink _yours_ , Moony,” Sirius said with a naughty grin that did nothing for Lupin’s confidence in him. _I should have let him drink it—Merlin only knows whose potion I had originally…_

“Look at it, Sirius,” he said, instead.

“What are you—” Sirius fell silent when he saw the rich blackness of the flask in his hand. “How in the -?”

“Your little plan backfired, it seems,” Lupin said dryly. Sirius looked intently at the table in front of them, seeming to assume that Snape had discovered his antics. Meanwhile, Hermia James was glaring in his own direction. He shrugged at her, and, unexpectedly—she grinned. Very carefully, she opened her hand to show that the flask inside was empty. Then, she reached into her bag and pulled another one out—a _red_ one—and placed it ostentatiously on the edge of her desk.

Remus couldn’t stop himself from issuing a low whistle. This girl was good. He wondered if the Sorting Hat hadn’t had some sort of off day. Her scheme was worthy of the utmost of Gryffindorish thinking.

=====

Hermione couldn’t remember the last time she’d had so much fun. The danger of the moment only added to the euphoria of it all, and finally she understood what made the Weasley Twins tick. She just hoped it wasn’t going to be addictive.

Seeing Remus Lupin stop Sirius from drinking Snape’s potion was disappointing, but when he didn’t immediately point in her direction, Lupin became a co-conspirator instead of an enemy. Thinking quickly, she showed him that the container in her hand was empty, and pulled Sirius’ from her bag and placed it very deliberately on the edge of her desk. Then she winked at Remus.

His look of sheer admiration mixed with shock was quite gratifying.

Hermione turned away, not wanting to tip her hand to Sirius just yet. She felt a little guilty as she looked over at Harold, whose eyes had glazed over somewhat as he looked almost _through_ her at Lorelei. She comforted herself with the secure knowledge that Mr. Ryan-Marks would rather not have to feel anything warm and fuzzy for Snape.

A loud, Lupin-like cough from behind her had her peeking over her shoulder quickly. Sirius was staring at the bottle on her desk, his mouth slightly open and an almost…hopeful…expression on his face. She told herself she was imagining that last bit.

With the empty bottle still in her right hand, she picked up the flask from the table and took out the cork, the eyes of the two Gryffindors behind her feeling as though they were boring through her. With her thumb firmly over the open tip of the full bottle, she tipped her head back as though drinking deeply from it, completing the charade by setting the empty bottle down afterwards.

Hermione had been planning to throw herself at Sirius as she left the classroom, just to see what his reaction was. Now, however, she felt almost unbearably shy. Most of the other students had begun filing out in groups of two, the typical boisterous laughter and loud conversations having shifted this afternoon to soft whispers and giggling. Hermione herself was nearly lifted off her feet by a hug from Lorelei, who was herself being attended to by a hovering Harold Ryan-Marks. Snape was nowhere to be seen. For a long moment, she was consumed by indecisiveness, and then it hit her. What would be more annoying to Sirius Black—unwanted advances from a girl after drinking his potion? Or his potion appearing to have _no effect at all._.

Hermione grinned.

Then, hefting her bag to her shoulder, the full red potion bottle still in her hand, she turned to leave the room.

“Good evening, Mr. Black!” she said cheerfully as she crossed out into the hall.

=====

Sirius was thoroughly confused. Not only had his prank gone woefully wrong, he wasn’t even sure _how_. He’d ended up with Snape’s potion, but the greasy git didn’t even appear to be upset with him. Severus would have surely taken extreme pleasure from spoiling his clever attempt, so he was ruled out immediately. Remus would have been a lot more upset at him if he’d known the full extent of what Sirius had planned, so he was out as well. That Marks kid was too busy fawning over Lorelei from Hufflepuff, and besides—he didn’t have the depth of conniving to have thwarted the plan, and neither did she.

That left…Hermia James.

Except, she’d drunk his potion without a single pause, and he was sure that if she’d managed to somehow switch all those potions around again, she wouldn’t have put herself in a subservient position to him by drinking his potion. When he’d seen it there on her desk, he’d been strangely excited at the thought of what she might do under its influence. He did think she was rather pretty…

She hadn’t done a thing.

He’d _seen_ her drink it, but all she’d done was waltz right past him cheerfully, heading to the library or the Great Hall or who knows where. Definitely NOT into his arms.

Had he mixed it wrong? Surely it wouldn’t have ended up a pure red color, a Gryffindor color, if he’d done something wrong…

Sirius shrugged, and picked up the black flask full of Snape’s love potion. He shuddered, pocketing it carefully for some later prank. Everyone was gone now, Lupin having gone ahead with Lily to find James, and Professor Slughorn into the depths of his storeroom. The Amortentia potion was still beside his desk, bubbling merrily. He decided that there was one last thing he had to check—he hadn’t gotten a correct sniff out of the thing earlier, after all.

Before he could stop himself with the thought that it was all nonsense, Sirius Black marched up to the cauldron of mother-of-pearl liquid and inhaled deeply.

It smelled very faintly of wisteria.


	11. Introspections and a Revelation

  
I walked across an empty land  
I knew the pathways like the back of my hand  
I felt the earth beneath my feet  
Sat by the river and it made me complete  
- _Somewhere Only We Know, Keane_

 

Saturday morning, Hermione had a package waiting at the end of her bed, with a card in Dumbledore’s handwriting. It read: ‘ _Secrets can be the most burdensome when there is no one to share them with. This book is enchanted to accept a password that only you know—you may store your secrets here, with no need to worry that they will be revealed to any but you. –Dumbledore_ ’

The book looked ordinary enough; the first page contained an explanation of the safeguards placed upon it and an incantation to repeat along with whatever word she chose as a password. Hermione felt her eyes well up with tears. It had indeed gotten harder over the week to deal with the pressure of what she knew. She wouldn’t want to give up her new-found friendship with Lily Evans for _anything_ , but knowing how long Lily had to live and just how she was going to die was an incredible burden; one that was becoming heavier day by day.

Hermione had never had a diary. She spent so much time on schoolwork—even in the summer holidays—that the thought of spending her leisure time writing seemed silly. Now, though, she couldn’t wait to begin. Dressing hurriedly, she grabbed a full inkpot, a couple of quills, and her bag of books; she planned to head for a quiet, shady spot by the lake. Hermione stopped quickly in the Great Hall and wrapped a few pieces of bread in a napkin to take with her. She wanted to spend the day alone, with just her thoughts and her studies to keep her company.

The weather was perfect—sunny and warm, a flat calm. She decided to treat the diary as if she were writing to herself, but an older herself—the age that Lupin would be, the age that Sirius would have been, in her time. She’d toyed with the idea of writing as if it were to Harry, but she knew that the longer she spent in this time, the more attached she would become to his parents—and how do you write someone about how much you love their family, at the same time refusing to do anything to save them? The thought of such a scenario spurred her on; the outpouring of her feelings was long, long overdue.

__

> _Dear Hermione,_
> 
> _1977 is at the same time a mess and a grand adventure. Wish you were here…_
> 
> _Well, not really. An adult Hermione would be even more out of place than the young woman that is here now. The strange part is, I don’t feel out of place! I feel as though I just barely might perhaps belong here. Those are a lot of conditions—I know. The truth is, I want so much to throw my concerns to the wind and LIVE. Considering that this is the best advice I could give —and only advice I will allow myself to offer to—Lily, James, Remus, and Sirius, I could hardly be more of a hypocrite if I bottled up and refused to do it myself._
> 
> _I’ve always seen the past as stagnant. Never realized that until I became a part of it, either. I didn’t really allow myself to think about the fact that people like Professor Lupin had lives, full lives, before I came to know them. That he had deep and lasting friendships with people who are now destroyed and gone. That Harry had parents, loving parents instead of those horrid Muggles—my parents are parents, even if they are non-magical, but Professor McGonagall really did say it: the Dursleys are the worst sort of Muggles imaginable._
> 
> _The truth is, these people are going to die.  
>  I can’t stop it from happening._
> 
> _The most horrible thing is, I CAN stop it. But…I really can’t. I have no right to make the future uncertain, no matter how awful, how truly ghastly that future will be._
> 
> _Dare I confess that I don’t want to grow up?_
> 
> _How truly odd, that feeling. I’m doing it right now, growing up. That phrase brings to mind all the exciting and scary things that come with it—falling in love, getting a job, buying a house, raising a family. I feel as if I have the potential for all of that, living in me, right now. Of course, the only sensible one to do right now would be to buy property—do deeds remain in someone’s name even if they disappear for twenty years? I doubt it—but the only truly likely one would be the first option…_
> 
> _Wouldn’t THAT be a mess!_

Hermione stopped writing to find that her entire body was shaking with emotion. She leaned back against a tree to let it stop, and when it subsided she felt the most extraordinary peace come over her. It was such an amazing feeling that she snatched up her new diary and held it to her ear as if she expected to hear Dumbledore’s voice casting some sort of serenity charm on her.

Was it really as simple as a need to release pent-up feelings? She supposed it was possible. Whatever the reason, it felt wonderful. She reread her entry, blushing slightly when she got to the last part. Hermione hadn’t ever really thought about falling in love, or even about dating much. Her relationship with Viktor Krum had been more about liking that someone wanted to be with her for _her_ than anything else, really. She had enjoyed his attentions, but had to admit that she didn’t miss him as much as she would have expected had she truly cared for him.

Right now, the people she missed were Harry, Ginny, Ron, and a few other classmates. Hermione giggled—she usually missed Hogwarts and the faculty there when she was home for summer break, but she didn’t have to miss them now! Except Hagrid, of course… She didn’t feel like she _needed_ anyone, however. 

The subject of falling in love reminded her of class on Thursday, and she rummaged around in her bag until she’d found the parchment she’d been writing on in Potions class. Hermione blushed when she remembered why it was blank—she hadn’t expected to almost run bodily into Sirius like that! She still wanted to analyze the scents from the cauldron, though, and so she concentrated, trying to remember what they were.

Leather, evergreen, and… she couldn’t remember. The leather was puzzling—who did she know that wore leather? Bill Weasley? Hermione pictured Ron’s older brother, and shook her head emphatically—definitely not Bill. 

The evergreen was a fluke, she was certain. After all, she’d smelled it on Sirius, which meant that he was likely the source for the aroma in the first place. She opened her Advanced Potion Making book, finding the descriptions of the Amortentia potion. The recipe itself was not included; the author explained that such a powerful potion was dangerous in anyone’s hands, much less a student’s. It interested her to know exactly how the potion managed to arouse each person’s senses differently, and how it chose the particular smells to stimulate.

Hermione settled herself against her tree and began to take notes, unconsciously humming to herself as she flipped through the pages of her textbook.

=====

It was nearly sunset when she finally gathered her belongings and set off toward the castle again. The sky was simply gorgeous with the lake and the distant castle as its setting. She was just marveling on how peaceful she felt when she saw the unmistakable figure of Lucius Malfoy walking in her direction.

 _All good things must come to an end_ , I suppose, she thought to herself wryly.

“Where have _you_ been?” he demanded brusquely. When she just looked at him blankly and shook her head, he continued, “There’s a meeting of Seventh Year Slytherins in the common room shortly.” Hermione just laughed and started walking in the direction of the library. Malfoy huffed a little and then followed her.

“In case you haven’t noticed—I’m not a Seventh Year Slytherin,” she said derisively, when she saw that he’d come up beside her. “I’m a _First_ Year Slytherin. So you can _keep_ your meeting.”

“I suppose you think you’re clever,” he said bitingly.

Hermione was confused—that was the second time he’d made a remark like that, and it struck her that he really seemed like he was hiding something. She decided to test him.

“Is there any particular reason why you’re so keen on pointing out my intelligence?” she interrupted whatever he was about to say. “Its almost as if you’re surprised I managed to be sorted into your house...” she dangled. If he didn’t catch the implied insult to Slytherin, it wasn’t her affair.

She must have touched a nerve, because the already pale-skinned Malfoy turned almost pure white, his eyes wide as saucers before narrowing to stare at her speculatively. Hermione was almost disappointed—what was it about 1977 Slytherins that made them so unequal to someone showing a little backbone? Hermione decided to turn the knife a little.

“I’ve come to the conclusion that your little ‘sorting system’ has quite a few flaws,” she said in a businesslike voice, trying to sound as if she didn’t love Hogwarts as a second home. “I think I’ll have a little chat with the Headmaster—”

“You’ll do nothing of the sort.” 

Malfoy moved quickly, stepping in front of her and blocking her path with the confidence she had expected him to show five minutes before. Hermione reassessed her opinion of him—it was she who had underestimated. “Quite a few House Points you’ve gotten us today,” he continued in a casual voice, still presenting a threat but not one that would be visible to anyone walking by. Hermione was furious, and it showed in her voice.

“If think you need the contribution of _one_ person in order to get—”

Lucius took a step forward. It was all she could do not to back up, but she held her ground.

“ _You_ are just fine, _where you are_ ,” he said, his gaze raking over her as though he’d meant her proximity to him instead of about the House she was sorted to. It was too much for her, and she took a faltering step away from him. Hermione’s acknowledgement of his strength over her seemed to be the reaction Malfoy was waiting for, and he turned on his heel and left her standing in the hallway, shaking. She closed her eyes for a long moment, finally moving off in the direction of the dungeons.

As she moved away, a figure wearing a red and gold scarf stepped out from behind a suit of armor and watched her travel out of sight, a concerned expression on his face.

=====

She didn’t know what she’d do without magic. The sock she’d transfigured into a light source hovered near her Arithmancy book as her mind drifted, thinking about the past week.

Hermione had been right about the First Years not being allowed into the common room—instead, there was a small little space in their dormitory where the girls studied and relaxed. It amazed her how quickly the eleven year olds picked up the attitudes of those around them. Her second night as a ‘First Year,’ Hermione had offered to help any of them with their schoolwork, but every one of the new students had looked at her like she was soft in the head. She did admit that she’d forgotten a key component of being sorted to Slytherin—all of these girls had to have come from magical families, so it was entirely possible that they didn’t need her help. Still, it rankled, being treated as lesser from people more than five inches shorter than she was.

She wondered, briefly, what the special Seventh Year meeting was about. A terrible thought occurred to her, making her shiver even though her bed was closest to the fireplace.

What if it was about the Death Eaters?

Hermione had heard about the tradition in the days before Voldemort’s defeat, how Slytherin students were admitted into the inner circle after they reached their majority. She racked her brain, trying to remember Severus Snape’s birthday—until she realized something else. Not only had she made herself _promise_ that she wouldn’t change history, but the intelligence that Snape had gathered over the course of his time as a spy was undoubtedly invaluable. She couldn’t stop him, even if she wanted to. 

That thought was sobering. Right then, it seemed just as terrible to be unable to stop someone from making a mistake that haunted them for the rest of their life as it was to be unable to prevent the Potters’ murder. She’d _seen_ how miserable Snape was during her years at Hogwarts, and while she often liked to think his personality was just inclined to unhappiness, his behavior in this time didn’t strike her as much about self-hatred as habitual grumpiness.  
Hermione wondered if just by being _nice_ to the man she could change the future irrevocably. _That_ thought made her incredibly angry. What had she just written in her journal? That she felt like she was going to burst if she didn’t throw off her worries and truly _live_ —not actively change anything, but also not hiding in a little ball in the corner, afraid to _sneeze_ for fear of changing the future! Well, she decided, she would be damned if she was going to spend her four months taking crap from Lucius Malfoy or hiding from Peter Pettigrew as if he were the Muggle Boogeymonster.

Hermione Granger, a.k.a. Hermia James decided right then and there to _live_.

=====

The first week of school hadn’t gone too badly, Sirius decided. A few of the Seventh Year girls had come back from summer hols looking quite a bit different from the year before. His group of friends was as tight as ever—though James’ happiness with Lily was almost disturbing. Sirius had never really thought about what it might be like to be exclusive. He’d always considered himself far too mercurial for that, and figured that he would probably get bored too fast to make it worthwhile anyway. James Potter didn’t seem bored, though. He seemed to be happier every day, and the most amazing part was he hadn’t lost any true part of his personality either. He was still Prongs, and would be Prongs in reality in a little less than two weeks.

Sirius looked forward to the full moon with excitement, the anticipation tempered only by the fact that Remus both dreaded and enjoyed their antics every month. He shuddered to think what Moony would have done if they hadn’t become friends—Remus Lupin was one of the best people he’d ever known, werewolf or not. The thought of what Lupin would do without the Marauders to support him was so horrible that it didn’t bear thinking about.

Even Peter seemed to be more confident lately, and Sirius thought that a lot of it had to do with the O.W.L.s—Wormtail had done quite well, surprising himself by turning out with nearly four. The short, pudgy boy had come very far since their first year at Hogwarts. It pleased Sirius to think that he’d helped his friend overcome his doubts to the extent of becoming an animagi with James and himself. 

All in all, Sirius Black thought to himself, he was pleased with his education at Hogwarts, the most wonderful aspect of which was his unexpected sorting into Gryffindor. His entire family, extended family even, were Slytherin—and when the Sorting Hat had firmly declared that Sirius belonged in Gryffindor, he could almost hear the shocked gasps from that side of the Great Hall. 

The truth was, he hadn’t even thought he would have a choice. His emotions during the train ride that first September night had been full of an odd mixture of joy and sheer dread. He’d run smack into Lupin, who as an eleven year old was about as thin as anyone could be without requiring medical attention. The two boys had recognized something in each other—a sort of terrified anticipation of what was in store for them. Of course, it had taken almost the entire school year to find out what Remus had been dreading, but for Sirius, his outlook on Hogwarts was not a happy one.

Looking back on it now, he was certain that Remus’ primary motivation in asking Sirius to tell him about himself was to avoid having to reciprocate. He hadn’t really needed to push; Sirius was almost completely miserable at the thought of having to spend seven years in the same sordid company that he experienced at home. The memory of a young, frightened Remus Lupin comforting _him_ on the Hogwarts Express, when the other boy had so much more to be afraid of…Sirius had to blink his eyes quickly to prevent an outward display of his inward feelings.

What he really wondered was if the Sorting Hat gave everyone a choice, just some students a choice, or simply him. When he’d forced his leaden feet to take him to the stool, the thoughts running through his eleven year old brain were simple and repetitive. ‘ _Merlin, is there any way I can NOT be sorted to Slytherin? Not Slytherin_ …’ To his shock, when the Hat was placed on his head, it did not scream to the heavens. Instead, it whispered in his ear, asking him if he thought he was brave.

Sirius had just walked across the room to his doom in front of hundreds of strangers—he certainly _felt_ brave. The Hat then asked him if he really wanted to be in Slytherin. Sirius had been adamant earlier, but he was wary of offending now, and he temporized. To his surprise, the Hat had interrupted his prevarication, asking him again if he felt brave. Sirius asserted again that he felt that he was.

‘ _What about Gryffindor, boy? I can see you doing great things in Gryffindor_.’

It had been too good to be true. The young Sirius was certain that he had fallen asleep on the train, listening to the sounds of the newest Hogwarts students arguing which House they expected to be placed in.

‘ _Its no dream, unless you refuse to make it come true_ ,’ said the Hat. Sirius could still remember his reaction, had dreamed about it many times since.

‘ _Yes! Yes—a thousand times, yes_!’

The walk from that little stool to the Gryffindor table was about as different as it could have been from the walk he took to the Hat in the first place. That happiness was expounded when Remus Lupin was placed in Gryffindor as well. The sandy-haired boy introduced someone he’d been speaking with in line, a friendly boy with hazel eyes named James Potter. The three boys became inseparable, bringing the shy Peter Pettigrew into their group in the first months of that first year.

Gryffindor was, had been, and continued to be an exciting and mischievous place to be. It suited Sirius perfectly. 

“Oi! Sirius?” James’ voice broke into his reverie, and instead of answering, Sirius positioned himself behind his bed with an arsenal of pillows. Sure enough, there was the sound of either a herd of elephants or Prongs coming up the stairs into their dormitory. He was rewarded with a faceful of soft projectiles.

“You _are_ upstairs,” was the only reply to the barrage.

“Good evening, James,” Sirius said politely, returning the cushions to their proper beds with a soft word and a flick of his wand.

“Missed a great sunset, Padfoot.”

“Were you watching it with Lily?” Sirius asked slyly. James missed the innuendo and just nodded. “Surprised you saw any of it…”

“Jealous?” his friend shot back, settling himself on a chair at the end of the four-poster his friend lay on.

“Not at all,” Sirius replied, mostly sure that it was the truth.

“She told me Slughorn cooked up some Amortentia for your class.”

Sirius nodded, frowning. James picked up on that immediately.

“What’s wrong—did yours smell like Olive Prescott?” he asked, tossing a pillow in his friend’s direction. Sirius allowed it to hit his face as he shuddered. The mousy Slytherin Seventh Year hardly had any backbone or opinion of her own, the exact opposite of the kind of girl he liked.

“No, it didn’t smell like anything at all, actually,” he said casually.  


“I don’t believe _that_ ,” James said animatedly. “That potion _always_ smells like something.”

“Even for monks?” Black countered.

“I’d imagine it smells like incense to them, or something,” he said, playfully kicking at the other boy’s foot. “Come on, you can tell me!”

“It really didn’t—” Sirius protested, adding, “well, ok, I did smell something, but I’m pretty sure it was the new James girl’s hair…”

“So it’s _you_!” James crowed. The joke of ‘who has a crush on the new girl’ was starting to get old, Sirius thought.

“Oh, stuff it, Prongs—she was standing by the cauldron and her hair fell out of the knot it was in.” 

The explanation had sounded perfectly rational in his head, but when he said it aloud, it sounded pretty flimsy. He could feel his face starting to flush a little, something he hoped his friend wouldn’t pick up on. And there was still that business about the wisteria he’d smelled when he was alone in the room… Sirius brushed it off, taking James by surprise with a pillow he’d enchanted to hit him from the empty side of the room.

“Oof!” Potter had almost fallen off of the chair. “We’re too old for this, Padfoot!” he said indignantly.

“ _You_ might be,” was the response, punctuated by the three small cushions that Peter kept on his bed when it was made.

“You’re older than me!” James said, giving up and lunging at his friend with a heavy feather pillow.

“Right!” Sirius said, muffled by the other boy’s handiwork. “That means _you_ can’t be too old!”

“What on ear—” Remus Lupin had entered the room to find out where all the thumping sounds were coming from, and was rewarded by a massive array of pillows from his two best friends. Events went downhill from there, ending with a blanket of down on every surface of the room and three thoroughly exhausted Gryffindors.

=====

“Have you gone out of your mind?”

The hissed words seemed to echo through the dark corridor, and the speaker stopped himself quickly, as though he did not wish to be overheard. The damage was done, however—a young man on his way back to his common room thought he recognized the voice, and quickly stepped into a nearby alcove to listen. He didn’t have long to wait.

“No, there’s no way she’ll find out!” snapped someone in a haughty voice.

“I just can’t believe you thought you’d get away with something like this,” the first person said angrily. It sounded like Severus Snape.

“The Sorting Hat only wakes up once a year,” the second boy said disdainfully, “and by then it’ll be too late!”

“And I’m sure you know that for certain,” Snape said, in mocking tones.

“Well…”

“Exactly. I suggest you speak up now, Lucius, before this becomes a bigger problem than a Welcoming Feast prank!” the black-haired boy said to his companion, passing quite close to their observer as they moved out of the shadows in the direction of the dungeons. “You may not have much respect for the idea of House pride, but I _do_!” Snape said as they passed out of earshot.

He couldn’t believe what he’d just witnessed. It sounded as if Lucius Malfoy had somehow tampered with the Sorting Hat… The young man adjusted his robes carefully as he walked purposefully toward Gryffindor tower. He had to tell the others about this.


	12. Hello Teacher, Tell Me, What's My Lesson?

  
Make me a witness, take me out  
Out of darkness, out of doubt  
I won’t weigh you down  
With good intention  
Won’t make fire out of clay  
Or other inventions  
- _Witness, Sarah Mclachlan_

 

When Peter made it back to the Gryffindor common room, he’d found that his friends had all turned in for the night save James, who was occupied in a corner with Lily. The conversation he’d overheard wasn’t quite enough to spur him into interrupting _that_ , so he decided to think on it and headed upstairs. While settling into bed, he decided that the best course of action would be to find more evidence on which new Slytherin they could have been speaking about. After all, he had no proof that the Malfoy git was referring to the transfer student, and Peter didn’t relish the idea of confronting someone like that only to be proven wrong.

As Peter drifted off to sleep, he reflected that the conversation he’d eavesdropped on was the first time he’d ever seen Severus Snape sticking up for anyone in his life.

=====

On Monday morning, Hermione checked her magic course schedule and found something she hadn’t bargained on. Each student was given an enchanted paper with their classes on it that updated for them weekly. During her first year at Hogwarts, she’d carried hers with her every single day (including weekends), even _after_ she’d memorized her schedule. It was one of the first tangible examples of magic she’d ever seen or held in her hand, her wand being the first of these of course. A wand required direct action from her in order to cause anything magical to happen, however; the course schedule changed even in her sleep. That first year’s parchment still lay as her bookmark in her own copy of _Hogwarts, a History_ —but it wasn’t what she had her so concerned right now.

This one listed a flying lesson in the afternoon.

She hated flying. Not that she couldn’t do it; Hermione was perfectly _capable_ on a broom, but she always felt as if there was something terribly unnatural about it. Harry and Ron always tormented her about it unmercifully when the subject came up, particularly pointing out that Hermione had unusual talent at performing ‘unnatural’ things like magic. Still, she’d had more of her fair share of nightmares about taking that class again…sometimes she could never manage to get off the ground, sometimes she couldn’t land, and the worst ones always included her falling off in midair. Those lovely thoughts accompanied her to breakfast, and after eating she sought out Professor Slughorn to see if there was something he could do about it. 

At the sight of her, the portly Slughorn beamed delightedly and allowed her to pull him aside for a short chat. Hermione winced inwardly at his obvious regard for her—she’d resigned herself to the knowledge that some of the faculty would remember her (Professor Snape undoubtedly would be one of them), but she’d counted on Horace Slughorn’s nature as her ticket to anonymity in his case. After all, he barely knew what House she belonged to in her own time, as he was typically preoccupied with the students from well-known families or those who had displayed particularly good talent in his observation. 

It turned out that he couldn’t help her: ‘They like to keep a certain standard at the school, you understand—you’ll do just splendidly, my dear, I’m sure of it.’ At the look of disappointment on her face, his had lit up as though a thought had just occurred to him, and it was all Hermione could do to excuse herself before he offered her a place in his ‘Slug Club’ to mollify her. Hermione had heard enough from Ginny about those meetings to know that she wouldn’t enjoy them in the slightest.

When she got to class, she disappointed Lily with her news; it turned out the only non-N.E.W.T. classes that the Seventh Year Slytherins and Gryffindors had together were Care of Magical Creatures and Herbology (both of which they had once a month in Seventh Year, excepting the students that had chosen to take the N.E.W.T.-level versions), which Hermione would be missing to embarrass herself with the First Years in front of Madam Hooch. Hermione stopped herself at the last minute from describing her new plan to anger Lucius Malfoy, realizing that although it would cheer her friend up slightly, Lily would have wanted to know the reasons behind it all, and Hermione didn’t think she could come up with a viable lie.

Malfoy had something to do with her being sorted to Slytherin, Hermione was certain of it. His behavior and the things he had said to her all indicated guilt of some kind, especially his snide references to Ravenclaw when he spoke about how smart she was. She had to admit to herself that she was mostly at a loss to determine exactly how to investigate the matter, so her current option was to goad him into divulging something. She most wanted to know why he’d chosen _her_ —if indeed he’d managed to bewitch the Sorting Hat at all—without knowing beforehand that she had any value to Slytherin. Hermione thought she had a perfect plan to figure this out, however.

Lucius clearly had a healthy amount—if a somewhat warped sense—of House pride, as evidenced in his statements about House points to her. So, she decided, she wouldn’t earn any. Malfoy wouldn’t be able to stand it, if she knew him as well as she thought she did, and she hoped that in his anger, he might divulge something that would explain his odd behavior. Hermione knew that her personality would work against her in this scheme, as she truly did enjoy doing well in class. She simply did not have the inhibitions that many other students had about speaking up, which meant she tended to be called on in class quite a bit more.

Hermione’s resolve was severely tested in that morning’s Charms class, however. She and Lily had arrived early, seating themselves and chatting animatedly before the rest of the class arrived and Professor Flitwick began the lesson. She couldn’t have been more excited to discover that they were being taught the Protean Charm. Hermione had used it extensively in her Fifth Year, charming the coins each DA member was given so that they could coordinate their meeting times. Flitwick had barely enough time to describe what the charm did, however, before the door at the back of the classroom opened and someone strolled in to hand him a note. It was Lucius Malfoy.

Something clearly upset the professor about this new development, but the good-natured little man simply gestured the blonde boy to a seat and resumed his lesson. The rest of the class looked shocked, and as Malfoy seated himself, he remarked loudly that he’d known his father would be able to clear ‘it’ up for him. The whispers started immediately, and Lily took out her quill and wrote an explanation of what she knew of the situation for Hermione.

Malfoy, it seemed, was not very good at Charms. Like his son would do in the future, however, he relied on his family connections to get what he wanted—and it had apparently worked in this case. ‘It,’ Lily wrote, was most likely his poor performance on his Charms N.E.W.T., something that normally precluded attendance in the Seventh Year course—unless one had influence in some circles, that was.

Hermione wasn’t sure whether to be pleased or frustrated. The Protean Charm was exceedingly difficult, but she’d mastered it long ago. If she were to keep with her earlier plan however, she couldn’t let on that she knew anything about it, or she would certainly garner recognition for it. She looked over at Lucius who, true to form, sneered at her and looked away.

When the time came to practice the charm, it took all of her concentration not to perform the wand movements properly. Hermione took a few minutes to observe the rest of her classmates, and in doing so she finally understood the reaction of the Ravenclaw students in her Fifth Year—no one had even come close to mastering it yet. Professor Flitwick moved through the class, correcting pronunciation here and wand movement there, and finally assuring everyone that he didn’t expect anyone to manage it on their first day trying.

Hermione could see that Lily was quite close, but was attempting something a little too difficult with no need—she had two coins in front of her and was trying to change the entire face of one by altering the first one. The combination such an effort was requiring far too much concentration. Hermione found Professor Flitwick’s choice of material ironic. She still had her coin from Dumbledore’s Army, though when they met nowadays they had no need for the secrecy that had given her the idea to use the Protean Charm in the first place. Every time she changed the date on Harry’s coin, all of the other members’ coins had changed as well. That Professor Flitwick would choose to hand out coins as the means of teaching the same charm…

Finally, she couldn’t take it anymore. She had to help Lily, as the other girl’s difficulty wasn’t in casting the charm, it was in overreaching herself. Hermione conjured up six identical coins and, gently, reached out to stop Lily’s wand hand.

“I know why it’s not working,” she said in a low voice. At Lily’s quizzical look, she elaborated, “You’re trying to do too much at once, Lils—you don’t have to change a whole side to _learn_ the charm!” Lily blushed.

“I didn’t think of that,” she admitted.

“Here,” Hermione said, quickly arranging five coins in front of Lily, picking one up and placing her Charms book in front of them, hoping that Flitwick wouldn’t notice that it blocked his view. He was on the other side of the room, anyway. She pointed at the coins.

“The dates are all the same, right?” Lily nodded. Performing the intricate wand movement, Hermione cast the Protean Charm, then pointed her wand at the coin in her hand and changed the last two digits of the date. Her friend’s quickly indrawn breath told her she’d done it correctly.

“They all just changed!” Lily said admiringly.

“Professor Flitwick,” said a voice behind them, “I think Miss James has gotten it!”

Hermione could have kicked Malfoy, except that he’d just contributed to his own unhappiness—she still had no intention of showing any outstanding work in class. Before he even finished the sentence, she cast an Obliviation Charm on the five coins in front of Lily. They disappeared.

“Well, let’s see here,” Professor Flitwick said, reaching for the coin in Hermione’s hand. She could feel Lily trembling beside her after her friend had looked to see who had spoken, and knew that Malfoy must be nearly beside himself with anger.

“I don’t think it worked quite right,” she said quickly, as Flitwick cast a charm on the coin to discover what other spells had been attempted on it.

“You’ve definitely cast the charm correctly,” he said with pleasure, “but you’ve forgotten to link it to another object. Would you like to—” Before the older man could suggest she reattempt the charm, however, Lucius Malfoy spoke up in a agitated voice.

“Sir, she must have destroyed them by accident—I saw her change some other coins!”

Professor Flitwick did not like being interrupted at all, Hermione saw. Nor would the boy’s explanation have made any sense to anyone but herself and Malfoy, but just as she would have expected, the snobbish young man had forgotten that fact entirely.

“Young man, I suggest that you find your seat and worry about your own work,” Filius Flitwick said in an uncharacteristically hard voice. “You may have chosen to force yourself into this class, but angling for House Points will not win you any favors from me!” The entire classroom fell silent—the Head of Ravenclaw House did not get angry very often, but it appeared that when he did, he was a force to be reckoned with.

“I’m sorry sir,” Hermione said, not having intended to create a scene at all and more than a little worried at the thought of Malfoy’s retaliation. “I’m sure I’ll get it by Wednesday if I practice…”

“Don’t worry, my dear,” Flitwick said kindly, his anger quick to dissipate. “The changes don’t need to be very obvious for your first try.” She was certain that he was going to insist on watching her next attempt, but instead the professor simply patted her hand gently and moved away to the next group of students. Class would be over shortly anyway, Hermione knew, and she was already looking forward to Transfiguration. There was still Malfoy to deal with, however.

“I don’t know what it is that you thought you just did,” he hissed at her, clearly furious as they all stood up to exit the room for the next class. Hermione didn’t even let him finish, planning to let him stew in his own juices for a while.

Squeezing Lily’s shoulder for support, she turned to face the fuming Lucius and said, evenly, “I am not your circus monkey.”

Hermione laughed almost all the way to Transfiguration at the look on Malfoy’s face, wondering as she did so if the wizarding world even had a circus.

=====

The lesson plan for Transfiguration that day had quite a bit of potential, Sirius decided. Professor McGonagall had taken only a short time to explain the plan for the day: each student and their partner chose a pair of items from a basket at the front of class. Using these items, they were supposed to spend the rest of the class period transfiguring them into useful and complimentary objects.

It would have been a brilliant plan normally, but the professor had seemed to forget that the students in this particular year were experts at causing trouble. Still, Sirius had seen many groups of students coming up with brilliant couplets of items so far—Lily and her partner had pleased the professor greatly with their teapot and self-warming tea cosy that informed the drinker when the tea was nearly gone. He’d observed that Miss James had managed to find or conjure up a hair tie, and the braid in which her hair was confined looked inviolate.

He was disappointed—he rather liked the idea that it could burst forth at any time and cause her to get frustrated—he thought she looked quite pretty when she was frustrated. Sirius didn’t quite care to examine this conclusion very closely; he’d decided that she didn’t seem like his type at all. She seemed to enjoy studying almost _too_ much, and the last thing he wanted was a girl that nagged him to do his homework. He had to admit, though—he had never figured out exactly who had managed to foil his seemingly brilliant plan in Potions class last week. Any girl who could do something like that and get away with it was definitely his type, no matter how much she studied. He watched as Hermia studiously transfigured her teapot into an inkpot and shook his head—no truly mischievous person could ever choose such an item without intending it for some nefarious purpose. When nearly five minutes went by without the ink spilling or staining anything, he concluded he was right in the first place. It couldn’t have been her.

“I’ve got an idea,” Prongs said, pulling at his friend’s sleeve. Sirius dismissed Hermia James from his mind and focused on wreaking havoc in class—otherwise known as learning.

“Is it bigger than a breadbox?” he joked.

“Nope,” Prongs said with a grin. “Next question!”

“Is it going to get us out of class early?”

“Undoubtedly,” James said, nodding.

“Will we ever be allowed back in?” Sirius asked next. James’ face fell.

“Never mind,” he said, adjusting his glasses and scratching something out on his parchment.

“Better luck next time,” Sirius said encouragingly, leaning his chair back to see what Moony and Wormtail had come up with.

Both boys had their hands over their ears and Peter appeared to be counting down from a stopwatch. Sirius quickly nudged James and the two of them covered their ears just in time. Pettigrew and Lupin had chosen to transfigure an alarm clock into a gavel, which rapped loudly on a piece of hard wood when it went off. Professor McGonagall could barely conceal her smile as she told the young men they’d done a good job and that the alarm meant it was time to choose their next pair of items.

Their contraption gave Sirius an idea, and he turned to his partner with a grin, detailing the specifics in an excited whisper.

=====

“‘Saints preserve us,’ as my grandmother would say,” Hermione said with a groan, causing Lily to look at her in alarm. “I think your boyfriend just transfigured a dumbbell into a dungbomb,” Hermione explained.

“Oh, _Merlin_ , what are they up to now?” the redhead said with a groan.  
“Well, at least you know he’s talented—that’s a pretty complex object to get right,” Hermione offered in consolation.

“He’s too clever for his own good,” Lily said begrudgingly. “The only way to know if he did it properly is for it to go off!” They laughed. “Goodness knows what Sirius came up with to go with something like that,” she added.

Hermione turned to watch them as her friend went back to perfecting the self-blotting quill she was working on. James Potter was admiring his own handiwork as it sat in front of him, and Sirius Black was crouched next to his friend, fiddling with something under the table. At this angle, she could only see his face, and she permitted herself the rare luxury of examining it. His brows were furrowed in concentration, but his eyes were sparkling with delight and anticipation. As she watched, he lifted his head to ask James something, and at that moment Sirius looked almost exactly as he had when they’d stayed at #12 Grimmauld Place for Christmas and he’d gotten to spend a lot of time with Harry.

She could almost feel her heart break right then. The situation was so untenable that she wasn’t sure she would be equal to the promise she’d made to herself not to change anything. His life after the tragic events in Harry’s babyhood would be so horrifically difficult, and just as he had finally found happiness again, that life would be taken away. It was, and had been, too much to bear—and seeing Sirius as a vibrant young man brought it all back to her harshly. 

Hermione decided that no matter what happened, she couldn’t allow herself to get so close that she’d break her vow.

Just then, the object of her scrutiny picked something up and set it atop his desk. It was so odd-looking that she thrust aside her morbid thoughts and caught Lily’s attention, hoping that maybe her friend knew what it was. She did.

“Oh, Merlin,” she said again, closing her eyes for a long moment.

“What is it?” Hermione asked, thoroughly confused.

“They made one of those in Fifth Year,” Lily said, starting to pack up her things. “They used it to fling dungbombs into Filch’s office from down the hall.”

Hermione started to put her things away as well.

“They wouldn’t possibly—” she began, cut off by a polite male voice coming from behind her.

“Launch sequence commencing in three minutes. Have a nice day!”

“Does that answer your question?” Lily said, trying not to laugh. 

“Mr. Potter, _dare_ I ask what you are planning to launch into my classroom?” Professor McGonagall asked acidly from behind her desk.

“You’re a Gryffindor, ma’am,” he said respectfully, “I’m sure you would.” The class erupted in laughter, and even McGonagall’s lips twitched slightly.

“In that case, young man—what _are_ you intending to launch?” she asked, interrupted by the same cheerful voice coming from the device in front of Sirius.

“Launch sequence commencing in two minutes. Please clear the area.”

The students seated in front of the boys’ table immediately stood up and began to comply with the polite suggestion, in some cases not even bothering to take their belongings with them. Lily and Hermione took their already packed bags and moved to the side of the room, Miss Evans choosing not to even make contact with her boyfriend.

“I suggest that we all assume your…invention…works properly?” the professor’s voice faltered on the word, clearly wishing to deny even that kindly a word for it. 

“Don’t you even want to see if it works?” asked Sirius with a perfectly straight face.

“Not particularly.” Professor McGonagall answered in kind.

“Thirty seconds until launch,” the device supplied helpfully.

Hermione could see it now—the professor as well as the two boys whose contraption it was seemed to want to play chicken with the thing until it went off—but she knew first-hand how horrible a smell that would result if they took too long.

“ _Tego texi tectum_!” she chanted, stepping from against the wall and casting the protection charm. A few seconds later, the device shook slightly and the air within the protective bubble turned misty.

Fully half of the students in the room looked disappointed.

“Thank you, Miss James,” the professor said, sounding quite relieved. “Five points to Slytherin.”

“ _Ruddy hell_ ,” Hermione said under her breath, uncharacteristically. Well, she’d tried.


	13. Making Fire Out of Clay

  
Children waiting for the day they feel good  
Happy birthday, happy birthday  
Made to feel the way that every child should  
Sit and listen, sit and listen  
Went to school and I was very nervous  
No one knew me, no one knew me  
Hello teacher tell me what’s my lesson  
Look right through me, look right through me  
- _Mad World, Tears For Fears_

 

Remus Lupin decided quite firmly that Miss Hermia James was a kindred spirit. That she had acted as a kind of guardian angel for he and his friends twice so far didn’t hurt, either. The genius of it all was that she didn’t appear to need or even particularly _want_ any credit for her actions. He’d watched her face after her spell had prevented the dungbomb from going off in Professor McGonagall’s classroom—she had seemed almost _angry_ that she’d been awarded House points for what she’d done. Her apparent close friendship with Lily Evans was the icing on the cake—Slytherin or not, she was ‘good people.’

“I wonder if all Slytherin students would turn out that well if they weren’t exposed to six years of indoctrination,” he wondered aloud as the four boys walked to their Herbology class.

“‘Well?!’” protested James. “She got _House points_ for ruining our project!”

“How many House points would you have lost if she hadn’t?” Peter pointed out astutely.

“It still got ruined,” Sirius said, fairly disappointed at the way it had turned out.

“I’m just saying it seems pretty out of character for a Slytherin,” Pettigrew persisted.

“What are you trying to say, Wormtail?” Remus asked, the shorter boy’s point being of particular interest to him.

“Uh…nothing, really,” Peter backpedaled quickly, not yet willing to voice his suspicions. “I mean, she could very well have done it because she wanted to ruin a Gryffindor’s project.” He didn’t sound very convinced, however, and Lupin decided he’d ask his friend what his suspicions might be after class.

“She hasn’t been a Slytherin for very _long_ , either,” James emphasized, his eyes following Lily as she walked right past him without saying a word.

“I guess you’d better hope it’s not her influence that’s keeping your girlfriend from talking to you, Prongs,” Sirius said ominously, the effect somewhat marred by his rapidly moving eyebrows.

“I’m sure it has more to do with how close she came to smelling like dung for the rest of the day,” James assured his friend.

“You’re probably right,” agreed Sirius.

The four of them trouped into the greenhouse with the rest of the Gryffindors and Slytherins, most of the students chattering and laughing as they arrayed themselves around a long trough of dirt. Remus made sure not to stand very close to the edge, and he stood very still with his hands behind his back—he knew that in magic, it was always the most innocuous looking things that were the most deadly. He could hear a group of Slytherin boys to his right talking to each other in low tones, even though they were many yards away. His transformation was coming this weekend, the nearness of it causing all of his senses to be heightened. By Saturday morning, Remus would be able to hear every bite the students in the Great Hall took at breakfast.

Lupin’s hearing wasn’t the only sense affected by his condition—both his eyesight and his sense of smell improved in the days before the full moon. Right now a deep breath told him that not only was he in a room with twenty-odd teenagers, but that there was more than just dirt in the wooden trench in front of them. The scent itself was acidic, but more than that, it set off a strong warning in his animalistic self—whatever was buried here, nothing in the wild would come near it.

“What’s wrong, Remus?” the speaker was Stephanie—Steffie, as she liked to be called—Kirke, one of Lily’s friends and another Seventh Year Gryffindor. As she laid a gentle hand on his shoulder in concern, her long brown hair swung out and he felt it tickle the hairs on his arm. Looking down, Remus saw in surprise that every single one of them was on end. _Way to be inconspicuous, Lupin_ , he admonished himself. The werewolf in him _really_ disliked the planned lesson for today, it seemed.

“I’m fine,” he forced a smile. “Did you ever just get a sense that something isn’t quite right?” Steffie squeezed his shoulder as she let go and smiled in return.

“Definitely.”

They both turned then to devote their attention to Professor Sprout, who entered the greenhouse in her normal cheerful manner.

“Oh, Circe!” she exclaimed when she saw where they were all standing. “That was supposed to be covered.” The diminutive professor spoke a quick incantation and the top of the trough enclosed itself in glass.

“I wonder if that one would work in the lavatory,” James said under his breath to Sirius. Lupin just shook his head in disgust.

“Now then! Welcome to Advanced Herbology!” their cheerful professor said with enthusiasm. As she spoke, Sprout began to fill a basket with protective clothing, which she enchanted to slide along the top of the glassy surface in front of them. “Everyone take a set, please.” Then, in a more commanding tone, “This class is required for your year because there are certain things that we in the faculty wish you to learn, but are too dangerous for any but the oldest of students at Hogwarts. Therefore, I expect you to be mindful of your surroundings at all times—” her voice softened here, “and don’t worry, there are no tests or exams in this class. It is informative only.”

“But—Bella said that she nearly failed—” protested Bertram Aubrey, a Slytherin boy.

“Ah yes. I tell each graduating class to inform their successors of the extreme difficulty of this class,” Professor Sprout chuckled. “Anticipation sharpens the senses!” When she saw that they were all dressed in the safety outfits, she began their lesson.

=====

Hermione stood on the lawn with the assortment of first years and wished with all her might that she had Harry’s invisibility cloak. She supposed that ‘ _Accio Invisibility Cloak_!’ would be too conspicuous an action to warrant trying, and instead spent her time waiting for Madam Hooch admonishing herself for putting her hair up so that she couldn’t even hide behind it. The last time she’d been in high wind with loose hair could hardly have been termed as ‘inconspicuous,’ however—for all that afros were still in style in 1977. As it was, every giggle or whisper felt as though it was about her, and when the flying instructor finally arrived, she marched over to the woman to have a word. Luckily their position was too far away for any of the First Years to overhear them.

“Excuse me, Madam Hooch,” Hermione said timidly. Hooch had always intimidated her in a way that Professor McGonagall should have but didn’t—but then, Hermione was _good_ at Transfiguration.

“Yes, dear?” Somehow when she said it, it sounded less endearing and more like an interruption. Hermione pressed on, however.

“I was wondering—I’ve been in a similar class elsewhere, when I was younger,” she said, trying to couch her terms in a manner that sounded believable, “and I’m sure that my presence here is probably a waste of your time—”

“It’s no bother,” Hooch said brusquely.

“It’s just that I’m so much older than they are,” Hermione faltered; she hadn’t intended to explain her _real_ reasoning. Madam Hooch looked at her with true compassion showing in her dark eyes.

“I do understand,” she said kindly, “but it’s important to us that everyone go through the same training, so we as educators feel we’ve done the right thing.” She reached for the parchment in Hermione’s hand and made as if she were marking something off on it. Hermione felt a rush of gratitude—by doing so, the professor was giving the other students the impression that she’d come over here for some other reason than to beg off. “You’re welcome,” the older woman said to her unspoken thanks. “In any case, it’s only one class—and no one will probably even see you out here!”

Hermione felt a lot better as she moved back to stand with the younger students—until she looked around. Not only were the greenhouse windows (that she knew for a fact were filled with Gryffindor and Slytherin students in her own year) facing them, but their lawn lay in front of an entire wall of the castle itself.

“So much for that idea,” she said under her breath. Hermione wondered if there was a spell specifically for fogging up windows as she watched shapes moving around inside the greenhouse.

=====

The lesson was truly fascinating, Sirius had to admit. Living in the dirt was a kind of plant whose sap had a very specific effect on the nervous system. ‘Corpsesito’ sensed its prey by weight displacement above it, and dug into its victims with fast-growing appendages that injected sap much like a spider’s stinger. These specimens were very young, but still quite potent, they were told. They generally lived in cemeteries or battlefields, but this particular strain had become quite aggressive due to the lack of food.

Sirius wondered how many wizards had ‘discovered’ these plants before one lived to make the find official.

After stressing the need to be confined in the gloves and aprons—due to the nature of the venom-type sap, one wouldn’t even realize they’d been effected, and could hurt themselves quite badly without nerve response to alert the pain centers of the brain—Professor Sprout gave them their assignment and split them into groups. Each team of students was to collect sap that would later be sent to St. Mungos for use in treating Cruciatus victims.

Sirius’ mind wandered—they were taking turns in baiting the plant to attach to the collection vial, and it wouldn’t be his turn for quite a while. His eyes traced the various outlines of plants in the greenhouse until movement behind them caught his eye. It took Sirius a minute or two to figure out what was going on until he saw a larger figure holding a broomstick move in front of the others. 

“Ohhh, poor Hermia,” Lily fretted, having followed his gaze to the window. At his confused look, she explained. “She’s got to take the flying lesson with the First Years—school policy.” 

He shook his head, perplexed. If it had been him, he’d have loved the chance to show off his skill at—

“She doesn’t _like_ flying,” Lily interrupted his thoughts, knowing him well enough to guess what they were.

“Well, that’s a shame,” Sirius said, feeling genuine sympathy for her. Flying was the one time he felt free, in charge of his own destiny. “She’s not _bad_ at it, is she?” he wondered. “I mean, bad enough that she’d worry how she looked in front of the little ones.”

“She didn’t say,” Lily shrugged. “I hope not.” Each of them took one last look through the windows at the people outside before focusing on the task at hand.

=====

> _Dear Hermione,_
> 
> _I hate flying._
> 
> _I know that you knew that already, but I felt that the point needed to be stressed.  
>  Stressed, now there’s a good word. I am stressed out from spending an hour or more with a group of snickering First Years trying to look like I know what to do with a broom besides use it to clean the floor. At least I don’t have to spend the rest of the day hearing about broom theory from Harry and about Ron’s delight that I’m bad at something._
> 
> _You know, I was ok with having the whole Slytherin House hating me; I was dealing with that. But now I’ve got all the First Year Hufflepuffs thinking I’m mental, and the mini-Slytherins are all going to go gloat about how they showed me up to their brothers and sisters._
> 
> _At least I didn’t fall off._
> 
> _Oh, and Madam Hooch goes on my list of really good teachers, for all that she nearly scares the curl out of my hair—which come to think of it, I wouldn’t mind in the slightest. She didn’t let me out of class but she made it look like I wasn’t trying to do just that so the First Years only had my behavior on a broom to laugh at instead._
> 
> _I think I’ll go to dinner early. I never see Malfoy there until it’s nearly over, and I really don’t think I can deal with him today. I will say, however, that my plan seems to be working almost too well; I’m almost afraid of what his reaction is going to be. Hopefully he says something that will give me some kind of clue as to his behavior…_

Hermione set her quill down and sighed. She hadn’t really bargained on the fact that Lucius was quite a bit more aggressive than his son would be. The look on his face in class this morning was almost murderous… She stood up and locked her diary with a word, resolving to spend the time after dinner in the library. Maybe she could ask Lily what they’d done in Herbology and look up the plants they’d studied so she could be on the same page for the next class.

=====

It was nearly 10:30 when she finally put all of the books away and started for the dungeons. Her initial research into the ‘Corpesito’ plant had led her into a fascinating amount of information about the Cruciatus Curse. She’d learned exactly how much poor Neville’s parents must have taken to have gone mad, and the nasty things the curse did to one’s pain receptors. Hermione walked faster, her mind focused on what she’d read and what Harry had told her about experiencing the curse for himself. She was trying to figure out exactly how long he must have been under it when she finally realized she was being followed. Instead of stepping up her pace, she turned to see who it was, and found herself facing the very person she had hoped to avoid.

“Thought you could hide in the library, did you?” Malfoy said, still walking toward her.

“It would be just like you to see it as a place to hide,” she said scornfully.

“I don’t know what you thought you were doing today in Charms—” Lucius said with narrowed eyes, stopping about three yards away from her as if she had some sort of disease he didn’t wish to catch.

“I wanted to show Lily how to do it properly—not you or the rest of the class,” she protested. It was the wrong thing to say.

“We do not _fraternize_ with Gryffindors!” Malfoy spat, seeming almost livid, as though the mere thought of speaking to someone from that House was a crime.

“Oh, please,” she scoffed, backing away from him even though her words were brave. “We’re an entire _school_ , not just four houses!”

“I think someone needs to teach you what we do with Slytherin traitors,” Lucius said, the coldness in his voice more frightening than his previous fury. He slowly advanced toward her, and Hermione moved away from him until her back hit the stone wall, debating to herself what the best course of action would be. Running away was _not_ an option, but she had a full (and _heavy_ ) bag of books—or her wand. Given her talent at magic, the decision should have been a no-brainer, but Hermione knew things about Lucius Malfoy that gave her pause. As a man, he had no qualms whatsoever about using Unforgivable Curses, and all evidence showed that he wouldn’t really change much after graduating Hogwarts. Hermione didn’t know if she would be able to force herself to retaliate in kind, however—even after what he’d done to Ginny—and she had learned quite well that when dealing with a Death Eater, it was play dirty or play dead.

The simple truth was that if she reached for her wand, Malfoy would reach for his—and though it was silly of her to be upset over it, she wasn’t sure if she knew enough of the same sort of magic to repel him. Hermione had an advantage, however; she could think like a Muggle. Beaning the foul git in the face with a bag full of books would feel all the more satisfying with the knowledge that Malfoy would have been offended by the mere thought process that came up with the idea. 

Hermione learned another thing about Lucius that night—he did not like silence.

“I’m going to enjoy teaching you a lesson,” he said, the candlelight reflecting eerily off of his light-colored eyes and hair. The look of satisfaction on his face told her that he assumed she’d been cowering in the corner waiting to see what he would do to her, rather than coming up with plans to attack or escape. As it turned out, she didn’t need to do either.

“I wouldn’t try that if I were you,” a voice said from behind Malfoy. Hermione didn’t recognize the voice at all, and neither, it appeared, did Lucius. They both peered into the darkness of the hallway, looking for the source—a boy stepped into the moonlight with his wand at the ready and spoke again.

“She’s way out of your league,” Peter Pettigrew said.

_If someone were to ask me right now what the worst experience in my life was up to this point_ , Hermione thought to herself in a state of shock, _I might just pick ‘Having my life saved by Ronald’s traitorous pet rat_.’ It would certainly have won the oddest, but feeling odd was only one of the masses of emotions that were running through Hermione right now. She didn’t know whether she wanted to laugh, cry, or run away screaming—and knew that she could do none of those things. 

“Run along, Pettigrew,” Lucius said derisively. “This is a Slytherin matter.”

“But should it be, _Lucius_?” Peter said in matching tones, choosing to refer to the other boy by his first name as a sophisticated insult.

_Why did it have to be YOU?!_ She screamed at Peter in her head as Malfoy retrieved his wand and the two boys faced off. _I want to HATE you!_ She wasn’t even sure which one she wanted to root for…

“What in _Merlin’s_ name is going on here?” Professor Dumbledore sounded actually upset, something Hermione had thought was impossible. At the sound of the Headmaster’s voice, Malfoy immediately thrust his wand into his pants pocket, while Pettigrew stood his ground. Neither of them said anything, and Dumbledore stepped forward to address her directly.

“Can you shed some light on this, Miss James?”

Hermione just wanted to go away and forget everything, but that was a coward’s way out, and she was certainly not one of those—no matter what House she was sorted to in whichever decade. Instead, she sighed and stepped forward, looking for the least inflammatory way to describe the past five minutes.

“Mr. Pettigrew was responding to a perceived threat against me by Mr. Malfoy,” she said in a small voice.

“Was it more than ‘perceived,’ my dear?” the old man said in a gentler voice. Hermione’s chin jutted out slightly as she nodded. Professor Dumbledore reached into his pocket and put something into his mouth ( _probably a piece of candy_ , Hermione thought with a tiny smile) before turning to face the young men in the hallway.

“Mister Malfoy,” he said in a forbidding voice that brooked no argument, “while I am aware that your father is a very powerful man in his circle of influence, I fear that you have picked up some very bad habits at home.” Lucius opened his mouth as if to speak and then wisely thought better of that decision as the Headmaster continued to speak. “I _suggest_ , therefore,” he said in a tone that did much more than that, “that you reevaluate your behavior this year. Most Ministry jobs require _graduation_ rather than just _attendance_ at Hogwarts.”

Malfoy’s face was alternately bright red and deathly pale during the admonition from Dumbledore, and his body seemed to slump as if he were trying to collapse in on himself.

“Please continue to your dormitory,” the professor said to him in closing, “and consider my advice.”

Lucius looked as though he would have dearly wished to defend himself vehemently, but one raised pair of bushy grey eyebrows changed his mind for him. He fled.

“Now, Mr. Pettigrew,” Dumbledore turned to Peter, his voice a little less harsh but still very much the disciplinarian. “Dueling on school grounds is a serious offense.”

“Please, sir!” Hermione had to speak up, even if she did hate the grown-up version of the boy under scrutiny.

“Allow me to finish, please, Miss James,” the Headmaster said to her without turning around. He smiled at Peter, something that the distraught Hermione couldn’t see from her vantage point—though she did see the boy’s relieved response as his body relaxed slightly.

“Yes, sir,” Pettigrew said in a surprisingly strong voice.

“Defending one’s schoolmate takes courage, however—particularly when they are not of your House,” the old man continued. Hermione saw Peter’s body tense up at this, and mistook the reason for it. “The only thing you are truly guilty of, young man, is a lack of restraint. Therefore, I charge you to complete your self-assigned mission to protect Miss James and escort her to the Slytherin dungeons, and then yourself to bed. “Dumbledore held up a hand, adding a condition to his ‘punishment:’ “You are not, however, to engage in _any_ confrontation on the way, no matter _who_ you encounter in the hallways. Is that clear?”

As Peter nodded, Hermione stood with her mouth half open, having experienced a new level of respect for her Headmaster after listening to his speech. The subtlety of his admonition was simply brilliant. She moved to stand next to her assigned guardian, mouthing a heartfelt ‘thank you’ as she did so. His response was to turn away from her quickly and call out to Professor Dumbledore in a strong voice.

Once again, however, her assumption as to the reason for his behavior was blown straight out of the water.

“Headmaster Dumbledore, sir?” Peter cleared his throat and drew himself up quite rigid as he continued, “I believe Lucius Malfoy tampered with the Sorting Hat when Miss James was sorted!”

As the older man turned on his heel to ask Peter more about his allegations and the young boy at her side trembled with a strange sort of purpose, Hermione once again quoted her grandmother, this time in her own head. _Saints preserve us…_


	14. The Once and Future Gryffindor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on the hunt for a beta. A couple of people have offered on Reddit, but I haven't heard back since they asked for a link to the story (and it's a big task, I'll admit that readily!), and it's been quite a few years since I knew where everything was in the HP fandom. Google searches have led to more broken links than not, and I'm starting to get discouraged. If you'd like to help me, please feel free to comment here or e-mail me at tigress@treellama.org. Even if it's only a chapter here or there, I'd be glad of the help.

  
“Four things support the world: the learning of the wise, the justice of the great, the prayers of the good, and the valor of the brave.”  
- _Muhammad_

 

Professor Dumbledore had gotten pretty far down the hallway by the time Peter spoke, and his shadow loomed over the two students at the end of the corridor as he walked toward them. By the time he reached them, Hermione was very nervous and could tell that Peter was, too—he still held his wand in his hand, which was shaking slightly. If it had been anyone else, she would have reached over to provide some sort of physical comfort, but Hermione’s feelings were still in too much disarray to make such a big step. Instead, she stood a little behind him as the Headmaster opened his mouth to speak. 

“Do you think Miss James was placed in the wrong House, Mr. Pettigrew?” Dumbledore asked, his expression completely unreadable.

“I don’t know, sir,” Peter admitted, “but I overheard a conversation that suggested as much.”

Hermione started in surprise. This was a new development—the very evidence she had been trying to come up with. Hermione supposed that she should have realized that key problem—she would be the last person to hold such an exchange around, after all. Her astonished reaction seemed to remind Dumbledore that the three of them were standing in the hallway.

“Let’s talk about this somewhere more private, shall we?” He spoke briskly, but as they turned to walk in the direction of his office, Professor Dumbledore patted her on the shoulder gently and smiled when she looked at him. Once the password had been spoken to unlock the spiral stairs, Hermione climbed them wondering if the phrase would be changed shortly—until she realized that there was no reason yet to distrust Peter Pettigrew. In fact, she had every reason right now _to_ trust him.

“Well, then—have a seat, both of you.” The old man turned to tend to Fawkes as they each settled into elaborate velvet chairs in front of Dumbledore’s massive desk. Hermione felt horrible—she wasn’t sure just how to react to Peter, but he _had_ just stopped whatever viciousness Malfoy had planned for her, and instead of acting properly grateful, she’d been distant and frightened.

Then again, he may have expected behavior like this from anyone after a week or so in Slytherin.

“What exactly did you overhear?” the professor asked, handing a tray of sweets to each of them in turn.

“Two of the Slytherin Seventh Years talking about the Sorting Hat,” Peter said in a rush, as if he’d been holding his breath. “One was telling the other that charming it was more than a ‘Welcoming Feast prank.’” The boy gripped the arms of his chair tightly and leaned forward earnestly. “One of the boys was Malfoy. I was going to wait until I had more proof, but—”

“But it’s exceedingly difficult for a Gryffindor to watch any sort of injustice,” Dumbledore cut in with a knowing smile. “I know—that’s an oversimplification,” he added, as Peter opened his mouth as if to say something. “What led you to believe their conversation was about Miss James in particular?”

“Well,” Peter faltered and looked a little sheepish. “Most of the First Years that are sorted to Slytherin are relatives of Slytherin alumni,” he trailed off, going slightly red.

“You mean that it’s easier to tell which of the new students will be sorted to Slytherin,” Dumbledore supplied helpfully.

“Exactly!” the younger man said, the flush fading slightly from his face and neck. Hermione knew exactly what his problem had been—she’d have described the typical Slytherin sorting as ‘inbred’ on a bad day, and ‘predetermined’ on a good one. The truth was, the population of purebloods by its very nature had to be diminishing, with a side effect of making a House based on such a thing very easy to predict. One didn’t speak in such terms to one’s Headmaster, however.

“I was sorted last, as well,” Hermione spoke up for the first time.

“That, too.” Peter nodded.

“This is definitely some food for thought,” Professor Dumbledore said soberly. Just then, a wild assortment of sounds filled the room to announce that the time was 11:00. “Speaking of injustice, it would hardly be fair of me to keep the two of you from your beds,” he said, standing. He walked over to Peter, putting a gentle hand on the boy’s shoulder much like what he’d done for Hermione in the hall. “It was the right thing, what you did. I promise to investigate this further, tomorrow. Right now, I want to ask Hermia a few questions—will you excuse us?” Peter nodded, seemingly relieved that he was escaping without further interrogation. He got up and had almost made his way to the bottom of the stone stairs before Hermione leapt to her feet and called down to him.

“Peter, I—thank you.” 

Their eyes met, and Hermione had to admit that she saw none of the desperation in them that so characterized the Pettigrew of her own time. He nodded at her gravely, and continued on out of sight.

“’Still waters run deep,’ I believe is the Muggle saying,” Dumbledore observed. _You have no idea_ , she thought.

The Headmaster was leaning against his desk next to her chair, and as she passed him to sit down she observed that he was wearing purple velvet slippers with golden tassels, something that lightened her mood considerably. They sat in silence for a long time until Hermione realized that the older man was giving her a chance to speak without her observations being tainted by whichever direction his questions might tend.

“I think he’s right,” she said, simply. “Almost any conversation—if you could call them that—I’ve had with Lucius Malfoy has included a snide comment on his part about how smart I am, or whether I thought I should have been in Ravenclaw instead.” She looked up at the professor and continued with true conviction in her voice. “But, sir—hardly anyone inhabits every single attribute that their House is known for, and even if they did, it wouldn’t stop them from being brave, intelligent, _and_ ambitious at the same time!”

“If it helps, I completely agree with you in that regard,” Dumbledore said, nodding. “I’ll see what I can find out, tomorrow.” He looked down at her and smiled, a familiar twinkle appearing in his light blue eyes. “I promise to base my conclusions on more than just personality and temperament!”

They both laughed, and Hermione stood to leave, covering her yawn quickly with a hand as she crossed the office to the wooden door at the other end.  
“Hermione?” Dumbledore called out, causing her to grin at the unexpected pleasure that hearing her true name caused. She stopped to see what he wanted. “I don’t want you to elaborate more than a yes or no, but—were you originally sorted to Slytherin?”

Hermione was feeling brave, so she replied, “I thought you didn’t want to create a particular bias in your investigation, sir.”

“I find I cannot help myself!” It was a delightfully unexpected answer, even from Dumbledore.

“In that case—no, I was not.”

It took all of her willpower not to color that statement with any adjectives that described how she felt about it.

===

The next morning, Hermione went to breakfast with the gold and crimson scarf she’d secretly transfigured on her first day hidden deep in her book bag. She found it gave her the confidence of someone who knew a secret about themselves that made them special, no matter what their surroundings. Today those surroundings, she found out not long after she sat down, included one Severus Snape.

He settled himself down across from her as if this were a regular occurrence, and she marveled that he could somehow be _thinner_ than his professorial self twenty years in the future. He was just as maddening, however—ten minutes later he still hadn’t spoken a word.

“Is this some sort of punishment?” she asked him tartly as she buttered a scone. “You know, ‘mouth off to Malfoy, earn a breakfast with the new girl?’”

“I knew you wouldn’t be able to handle it,” Snape said in a neutral voice, his eyes never leaving his copy of _The Daily Prophet._

“Handle what?” Hermione asked, wondering if he somehow knew about last night’s conversation with the Headmaster.

“The silence,” he replied, raising an eyebrow.

“Well!” she huffed, hating him for scoring such a large point on her. “If you knew me so well, why did you bother sitting down here?” It was a pathetic retort, and they both knew it.

“I needed my daily dose of sunshine.” 

Severus stood, folded his newspaper into his bag, and walked away without another word. Hermione watched him go, her feelings conflicted; his irascibility was almost endearing first thing in the morning.

=====

Their Potions lesson that day was one Hermione remembered from the first time Slughorn had taught it to her N.E.W.T. class, and thus was much easier this time around. She cursed her luck, however—she’d botched something pretty badly that day, and received a lesser grade as a result. Now, she had a chance to do better, but it wouldn’t count for anything! Hermione wondered if there were detailed records kept somewhere in the castle. If she could somehow persuade the portly professor to use her marks from today instead...

There was a muffled thump beside her and she looked over to see that Sirius Black had tripped over her burlap bag of books; the strap must have been in the aisle.

“I’m awfully sorry,” she said, flushing slightly as he apologized at the exact same time. They both smiled sheepishly as Hermione began to collect the books that had spilled from the container, and Sirius stretched out an arm to retrieve one that had slid under an adjacent table. Though she reached for it, the young man gallantly took her bag to place it neatly on top of the rest of the contents. She saw his eyes widen slightly as he did so, and her heart sank. He must have seen the scarf! She’d stuffed it into a corner of the bag, but it had gotten shaken about during the day and—

“Quite a lot of books you’ve got in there,” Sirius said, smiling at her again as he replaced her bag and its strap under the table at her feet. “It must get pretty heavy.”

“Yes, it does,” she said, hoping her relief didn’t show in her voice. “It doesn’t help that I carry all of them even on days I don’t have the class,” she admitted.

“It makes you feel better to do that,” he suggested shrewdly, his ears turning red as though he hadn’t meant to say something so personal. Hermione nodded, suddenly shy. She never really thought about it in that way before, but now that he’d said it she knew that was exactly why she carried them with her. Sirius had just turned to go back to his own table when the door at the back of the room opened and a diminutive blonde girl in Hufflepuff regalia asked for a ‘Miss Hermia James.’

“It’s all right, dear,” Professor Slughorn said pleasantly, “you’ve turned your vial in already.”

Hermione hefted her already packed bag, thanked Lorelei for her contribution to their potion, and started for the doorway, stopping only when she saw a foot moving, out of the corner of her eye. She looked down to see the strap of Sirius Black’s school bag, which had ‘mysteriously’ appeared on the path to the door.

Hermione was in a good mood. Instead of doing as she normally would, which would be to either ignore the thing entirely or kick it out of the way, she walked right past it and said something under her breath so just Sirius could hear her.

“It’ll take more than a pathetic attempt like _that_ to get me to fall at your feet, Mr. Black.”

Somehow she managed to leave the room without once looking back to see what his reaction was.

=====

“I’m sorry to call you out of class,” Professor Dumbledore said when she reached his office, “but I wanted to speak to you before dinner.”

“I was already done with my assignment,” she assured him. “I am surprised to see you so soon, however…” Hermione trailed off, realizing if she elaborated it might offend the man across the desk. What she really wanted to ask was how he’d managed to find out what he wanted to know in so short a time. The Headmaster hadn’t made Order of Merlin, First Class for nothing, however—he guessed the problem immediately.

“You want to know why I’ve called you back so early,” he said, shaking his head when she flushed scarlet and started to apologize. “No need to apologize,” he said, gently. “You remember the Pensieve?” Hermione shut her eyes for a long moment and nodded, still embarrassed. _Of course_!

“Wait,” she said, popping her eyes back open as she realized the importance of what he’d just implied. “What did you see?”

“Enough to believe that there was more going on than just a Sorting Ceremony.”

Hermione wished it wasn’t fashionable for old, wise wizards to be inscrutable.

“May I ask you a few things, Hermione?” 

She nodded, not yet trusting herself to speak after putting her foot in it earlier. “Why didn’t you bring this to me earlier?” Hermione sighed deeply, the kind of sigh that tells the observer that you have a lot to say and you’re not quite sure how to start.

“First of all,” she said, helping herself to a cup of tea as she spoke, “I know a lot about the attitudes of the students in Slytherin—most students do, after six years,” she said quickly, not wishing to sound like a know-it-all. “I don’t think I would have been treated very well there if it became known that I was questioning my placement.”

“Fair enough,” Dumbledore said, nodding.

“Secondly, I can’t imagine how badly it would have looked to stop directly after my sorting to claim that there’d been some sort of mistake,” she laughed, imagining the looks on the faces of everyone and anyone in the room. Sobering a little, she continued, “The real reason, however, is—I know things. Things that are hard not to want to tell people, and the best way to avoid telling someone something is to avoid _them_.” It was the closest she could come to saying that without giving specifics.

“So you chose to remain where you were in order to prevent yourself from altering the future,” the Headmaster clarified, making it sound quite a bit worse than the way she’d imagined it. He didn’t allow her to dwell on that, instead asking, “What is it about Slytherin House that makes you feel you don’t belong there?”

Hermione was taken aback at first, but then she forced herself to look at the question by looking to its source; as an educator. Even if a mistake had been made, if it wasn’t a serious one, the best solution might be to let it lie. Hermione knew that wouldn’t work, even if she wasn’t being treated like a Goblin rebel in the Middle Ages by the students in Slytherin. Hermione knew just what to say to explain what the true problem was.

“I’m Muggle-born, sir,” she said, watching his eyebrows shoot up in surprise, knowing at that moment that her Slytherin days were almost over.

“Well that won’t do, will it?” he asked rhetorically. “You know, even as a Gryffindor, I never really subscribed to the rivalry as much as the other students in my year.” As Dumbledore spoke, he rose and went over to a bookshelf along the circular wall. “It seemed to me that Salazar Slytherin was just more specific about what he wanted than the other Founders,” he continued, placing a stepstool in front of the bookcase, which was too high for him to reach the top of. “I would be a poor Headmaster indeed if I allowed something like a prank to violate the wishes of one of our educating pioneers.”

Hermione had fully expected to see the old wizard come down from the stepstool with the Sorting Hat, or something equally relevant to their conversation, but instead he held something that looked like a long stick with an elaborate twining of twig-like appendages at one end. She simply stared.

“Please forgive me,” the professor said, unabashed, “I have an itch in the center of my back that has been bothering me for months—I finally remembered where I left this.” He began to use the strange device, and she looked away, not wanting to disturb his strange ritual.

“Sir—about the sorting?” Hermione wasn’t sure she’d ever understand wizards.

“Yes, yes,” he said, rubbing his hands together in a satisfied gesture and putting his back-scratcher down again, “I think we’ll have to sort you again, tonight at dinner.”

“Déjà vu all over again,” Hermione said under her breath. Then, louder, “Please _don’t_ promise me it’s the last time,” she joked, “I wouldn’t want to jinx it. Three times is enough for me!”

=====

Hermione was completely calm as she sat down for the last time at the Slytherin table with her supper. She found her emotional state quite remarkable; the two previous times she was waiting to be sorted, she was an emotional wreck—this time she knew there would be a huge uproar, and she was as calm as she’d be picking daisies.

What she really wondered was if any student had ever been re-sorted before. She didn’t remember seeing anything like that in Hogwarts, A History, and she’d been sure to read as much as she could about sorting on the train ride to the school.

 _This is not how I imagined I would be making Hogwarts History_ , she thought with irony. Her body’s only concession to the stress of the moment was a slight fluttering of her stomach as Professor Dumbledore stood up to make an announcement.

“It has come to my attention,” he said in a booming voice that commanded the notice of everyone in the room. “That a student in this room was improperly assigned to one of the four Houses.” A ripple of shock rang through the room, but Hermione remained steadfastly attentive to the man at the front of the room. “Not only will I be speaking to those responsible for this… _stunt_ ,” his tone told his audience all they needed to know about his feelings on the matter, “but I would like to correct the problem itself by re-sorting the student in question.” Necks craned all throughout the room as many students sought to discern which one of them was the unfortunate that was to be singled out. 

Rather than trumpet her name for everyone to remember, Professor Dumbledore gestured for her to come to him. She was grateful that he’d decided to forgo the little stool, this time.

“I do this in public,” the Headmaster said, “so that there can be no mistake and no accusations of favoritism.” With that, he lifted the old Sorting Hat and placed it on her head.

 _Slytherin, was it_? it asked her incredulously. _Whoever did that was daft. You’re undoubtedly a…_

“GRYFFINDOR!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really enjoyed writing Hermione in Slytherin. It was a risk, because there are a _lot_ of stories in this genre, and it doesn't take much to hit the back button on a story that's going in a direction that a reader doesn't like. All the same, it taught me a lot about how to see Slytherin house as something in between the magical fairy dream house so many people course-correct their fic to, and the black and white absolute evil that many other stories lean towards (even the books themselves). For this reason I've always loved Slughorn ever since I met him in the books. Seeing Hermione's analytical mind and Gryffindor sense of right and wrong surviving and thriving in Slytherin was a joy to write.
> 
> To everyone who decided to stick with it, thank you. To anyone who might be disappointed that it was temporary, please take my promise of a ridiculously fun amount of banter between the Marauders and their friends as a consolation prize of epic proportions.


	15. New Beginnings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was revising chapter 23 and enjoying it so immensely I couldn't resist posting another chapter today. Enjoy!
> 
> Ps. still on the hunt for a beta! If not for this story, for my Remus/Hermione started this week called One Step Closer.

  
“To laugh often and much; to win the respect of intelligent people and the affection of children…to leave the world a better place…to know even one life has breathed easier because you have lived. This is to have succeeded.”  
- _Ralph Waldo Emerson_

 

Hermione had never doubted it during the time she had spent in Slytherin, but hearing the Hat tell her where she truly belonged made her feel so happy that she was surprised she didn’t run headlong to the Gryffindor table. Of course, Hermione being Hermione, what ran through her head during that long walk was also curiosity at the significance of what the magical object had said to her. Did spending six years in Gryffindor change her from a possible Ravenclaw into an undisputed candidate for Gryffindordom? She resolved to spend more brain power on the subject when she wasn’t the object of an entire room’s scrutiny.

When Hermione focused her attention outward rather than inward, she was given a lovely surprise: Lily Evans had gotten to her feet and come to welcome her with open arms. While—understandably—the rest of the Gryffindors’ reactions seemed to be mixed, she was touched that the one person whose opinion she cared about the most had chosen to make such a public statement about who her friends were. Hermione hugged Harry’s mom in the middle of the Great Hall and vowed to remember that moment forever.

As she followed her redheaded friend to her new table, Hermione remembered something important. She took out her wand and cast a quick spell, transforming her outfit to crimson and gold instead of the Slytherin colors she had been sporting. A little cheer went up from the Gryffindor table as she did so; she didn’t care to see what the reaction was from the silver and green end of the room. Lily stopped around the middle of the long table, waiting to introduce her to people she’d known about for years. Hermione greeted everyone in turn, wondering what their opinion was of her, and knowing they couldn’t possibly guess what her opinion was of them. She looked at the four boys arrayed around the table and saw no mistrust, no suspicion—no hesitation. She knew she would find out eventually if this was merely out of deference to Lily’s feelings or not—either way, she appreciated it greatly. The hairs on the back of her neck seemed to tingle with the knowledge of just how many people must be looking at her, however.

“Can we sit down?” Hermione asked apologetically. “It’s just that I feel like I have a sign over my head saying ‘Curious Object of Interest’ and it wouldn’t be as conspicuous if I were sitting.” They all laughed at this observation, and Lily settled herself down across from James, with Remus on her left. Hermione sat down beside her across from Peter, who smiled shyly.

It was a decision-making moment for Hermione. She thought about all the years she’d fought with her friends about what was fair and unfair; how hard it had been and how awful it had made her feel to give up on the House Elf cause—even though she’d known in her heart that they were happy in their state of being…those two things converged into the hardest choice she’d ever had to make in her life. If the boy across from her had never spoken up, it may have taken her weeks to discover what he’d overheard, perhaps longer to finally speak up to Dumbledore. And, as hard as it was for her to admit, _he had not done anything yet_. The Sorting Hat was right—she truly belonged in Gryffindor:

Hermione Granger reached across the table to clasp Peter Pettigrew’s hand.

“Thank you so much,” she said in a low voice that shook with emotion—some relevant to her comment, some not.

“You’re welcome,” he said in a very quiet voice, after taking a small sidelong glance at the rest of his group of friends. Peter looked slightly taken aback, though he squeezed her hand as he spoke, nonetheless. Hermione was confused at his strange behavior until she looked in the same direction surreptitiously. Sirius, James, Remus, and Lily were all looking at the two of them openmouthed. Each still gripping the other’s hand, Hermione and Peter’s eyes met with the knowledge of what the others must be thinking. They both burst out laughing.

“You err, didn’t tell them, did you?” Hermione managed once she’d caught her breath, not turning her head to acknowledge the four pairs of shocked eyes.

“No, didn’t think of it,” Peter said in the same low voice, trying hard not to start laughing again.

“Think we should put them out of their misery?” she suggested, finding it hard not to look to her left.

“I guess it has been long enough,” he agreed, squeezing one last time and letting go. They both resumed eating, though to their great amusement they continued to receive shocked looks for a few more minutes.

“Are you…going to tell us what happened?” Lily finally gave in.

“ _Thank you_!” Sirius said, reaching over James to get a piece of bread instead of requesting it be passed to him. “About time someone asked.”

“What was stopping _you_?” she said, rolling her eyes.

“Pride.”

“What else?” shrugged Remus.

“Are they always like this?” Hermione asked, her stomach already starting to hurt from laughing.

“Worse!” her new companions answered in a chorus of voices.

Hermione watched as Peter explained what had happened, her attention caught by the liveliness of the students around her. Instead of congregating in small clumps, whispering as though their thoughts and feelings were trade secrets, the Gryffindor students laughed and talked, cheered and joked; she could have been teleported back to her own time that very second and had a hard time telling the sounds apart.

“Hermia?” Lily called her attention back to the present—or the past, as it was in Hermione’s case. “I need to go to a faculty meeting—the Head Boy and Girl are asked to attend—and I don’t trust _these_ chumps to show you the right way to the tower.” An inordinate amount of coughs and sneezes accompanied this statement, ceasing the second Lily looked up from her plate. 

“Don’t even try to look innocent,” she said, her hands on her hips.

“We have to try?” James asked, batting his eyes at her.

“Shall we?” Hermione urged, her lips pressed tightly together to prevent herself from giving the boys the satisfaction of her laughter.

=====

Though Lily left her at the stairway that led to the Gryffindor tower, Hermione felt as though she had something to do before she walked through it and became a true Gryffindor again. Mistrustful of the stairs—she wouldn’t put past even the normally stationary ones to start moving if she sat down to write something—she located a bench and took out a scrap of parchment paper. She felt very strongly about this message, and intended to deliver it as soon as she finished the letter.

> _Dear Professor Slughorn,_
> 
> _The passion for glory truly is the torch of the mind, and I am sorry for your sake that your password must be changed over such an unfortunate incident. While the students in your House weren’t very friendly—a situation I believe is more to do with a natural mistrust of strangers—I regret that I had to leave it in such a way. I have nothing but respect for you, and hope that you do not bear me any ill will for choosing to be re-sorted once the truth came out. I want you to know that, should the subject of House points ever come up, I will fight like a tigress to ensure that those I won for Slytherin while under your roof remain there. I like to think I do my best no matter whom I represent, and there is no reason to punish an entire group of students (and faculty!) for a single person’s transgression._
> 
> _Sincerely,  
>  Hermia James_

Hermione hoped that this small gesture would help the genial man understand that she had a great deal of respect for him whether or not he was her Head of House. She wondered belatedly if Professor Dumbledore had spoken to him at all before he sorted her again. She hoped so; it would be quite an odd experience to have shown up to dinner to find one’s newest student being sorted away from you. Hermione folded the letter in half as she hurried along the hallways to the second-floor Potions classroom, _very_ relieved that this decade’s professor had not chosen the dungeons to reside in. After sliding the short missive under the wooden door of the Slughorn’s classroom, she headed back toward the moving staircases unhindered by even a poltergeist.

=====

When Hermione finally walked through the portrait hole into the Gryffindor common room—she’d had to have a long talk with the Fat Lady, who was naturally wary of a known Slytherin student with a password to a Gryffindor private space—she felt like kissing the floor. Even the guarded looks in the eyes of the students there couldn’t spoil the moment for her. The room’s configuration was different than she remembered (but then again, she couldn’t recall a period of time longer than 2 weeks where the furniture stayed in the same place), but the friendly atmosphere and the feelings it invoked in her would have felt the same, twenty years in the future.

She wanted to run up the stairs to the girls’ dormitories and put her things away, but was aware of the impression that would give to her new Housemates—even if her first action would have been to throw her arms around the crimson and gold bed curtains. Instead, she hefted her heavy bag of books and settled herself on a couch in the corner, surrounded by cushions. Even this—her favorite spot—had been vacant, beckoning her to relax and enjoy her pseudo-homecoming.

Hermione was so engrossed in her Arithmancy textbook that she only noticed she had visitors in her corner when James Potter sat down next to her on the couch. She looked up to find herself surrounded by living memories—all four Marauders were standing or sitting in a semi-circle around her. They didn’t look happy.

“You’re in my spot,” said Sirius, gesturing to the edge of the couch she sat on.

“And these were in mine,” James said almost cheerfully, handing her a pile of books.

“I see,” said Hermione, her heart racing. Was it the corner itself that was their designated spot? Or was the very same couch that she, Ron, and Harry claimed for their own somehow linked to his parents as well?

“We’re glad you _see_ ,” Lupin said, settling himself down on the floor with his legs outstretched.

“…but the point is, we don’t know you very well, yet—” Peter added.

“…and we’d like to sit down,” Sirius said, finishing the joint sentence.

Hermione marked the place she’d been reading in her textbook and looked around at the boys who’d been speaking. The only one who remained standing was Sirius. She raised an eyebrow and said, evenly, “We?”

Sirius shot a cross look at Peter, who’d been the last to sit down. He turned back to Hermione and crossed his arms.

“Yes, we.”

“Are you a collective?” Hermione held herself nearly rigid, trying to squash the trembling that had her insides tying themselves in knots. She caught Lupin smothering a broad grin under his arm at her comment.

“A…what?” Sirius said before he could stop himself. She had to stop herself from smiling—the thought of explaining The Borg to a group of wizards was priceless. Her lack of response, however, prompted another comment from the still-standing Sirius. “The point is, we usually sit here.”

“I can see that,” she replied, gesturing to the three sitting Marauders. “What is stopping you?”

Hermione could see all three other boys now hiding grins; her decision to go for ‘deliberately obtuse’ seemed to be amusing to more than just herself.

“Maybe she’s suggesting you sit on her lap, Pa—err, Sirius,” James said, covering a little too late for very nearly using his friend’s nickname.

Sirius looked at her, thoughtfully. She could feel herself beginning to blush under his scrutiny. Suddenly she was very aware of the fact that he was the same age as she was, and quite handsome. After a long, tense moment, Sirius shrugged and started toward her as if he’d agreed with James’ suggestion. Hermione stood up so quickly that she nearly knocked him over. The hands that reached out to steady her were strong and calloused, and Hermione realized the only other time he’d touched her was on the back of a hippogryph.

 _What on earth are you thinking about that for?!_ she asked herself, angrily.

“Err… sorry,” she said, stepping back away from him—towards the couch, preventing his taking her seat.

“No lap, then,” said James in mock disappointment. 

“Well, I haven’t really known him very long,” lied Hermione, playing along.

“We’ve only known _you_ as a Slytherin,” challenged James. 

“That’s a very good point, Potter,” Sirius said with a slow smile.

“That was a mistake—I am most definitely _not_ a Slytherin,” Hermione said firmly.

“But is it a mistake, your being a Gryffindor?” Remus piped up from the floor. Hermione shook her head emphatically.

“How would you know, you’ve only been at Hogwarts for two weeks or so,” Peter pointed out.

“Maybe you were just sick of the way Slytherins treated new blood,” Sirius said. Hermione fell right into their trap.

“How could I prove to you that I’m supposed to be in Gryffindor?” she asked in despair. Comprehension dawned a split second later, and she could have kicked herself for being so naïve. She had basically just dared _the Marauders_ to come up with something horrible for her to do—and she’d probably force herself into doing it, too. A furtive glance at the four boys around her confirmed her suspicion—all of them had the delighted look of a child on Christmas morning.

“Oh, dear—you look as though you ought to sit down,” said James in a chokingly gentle voice as he tried to hold back his laughter. He guided her back down to Sirius’ spot—earning him a disgusted look from the boy in question—and once she was seated, he patted her hand in the manner of a fussy grandmother. She looked at him almost helplessly, not sure if she should think he was mental or laugh hysterically at his antics. “I think the best thing for you right now,” continued the black-haired boy, still patting her hand in a way that was getting to be less amusing and more annoying, “would be to sneak into Professor Slughorn’s storeroom.” 

The other Marauders didn’t even bother hiding their broad grins at this suggestion, even as Hermione’s mouth dropped open in surprise.

“I don’t need anything—” she started to protest.

“No, not for _you_ , dear,” Potter assured her, finally stopping his maddening hand patting to lean back on the couch with his arms crossed behind his head. “The Veritaserum won’t be for you—“

“—Veritaserum?!” she choked. 

“Yes,” Sirius picked up the challenge. “ —For McGonagall.”

“Nice,” James approved.

“For…” Hermione was starting to sound a bit squeaky.

“Just a few drops for her pumpkin juice, tomorrow morning,” Sirius said, as if that made it all right.

“A few _drops_ of—” she was wringing her hands now, thinking about the impossibility of such a task.

“I’m sure she wouldn’t mind having a short chat with you, Hermia,” Lupin added, her almost-name sounding strange from his familiar voice.

“She probably won’t even remember you asking her about Dumbledore,” Peter said, completing the dare.

Hermione looked around at their eager faces, trying desperately to quash the unreal feeling that being in their presence was giving her. First things first, however...

“There’s…” she began, her voice still sounding awfully high-pitched. She started over; “There’s no way I’m going to do that.”

At this, Sirius threw up his hands in mock outrage, clearly about to pronounce her as the most _un_ -Gryffindor person he’d ever met. She spoke again before he had the chance, however.

“That’s entirely too _Slytherin_ a thing to do.”

All four of them just gaped at her; Lupin began to nod, slowly.

“However,” she said, standing up purposefully and walking over to stand directly in front of Sirius Black, “refusing to do it, in the face of rejection, is a very _Gryffindor_ thing to do.” Hermione crossed her arms, waiting for his reaction. His eyes flicked to the empty seat behind her, and without thinking, she reached out to stop him. “Oh, no, you don’t!” Sirius looked completely flabbergasted.

“Woah!” Peter exclaimed.

“Nice try, Sirius,” Remus laughed.

“I think she wins,” James declared.

The warmth of their approval washed over her in waves, and Hermione almost felt like crying. Ever since she’d gotten here, she’d felt off-balance and rejected, exiled from her real friends and cut off from people she’d been sure she’d like. She was right—she did like them…and she refused to allow herself to think about what that might mean to her future sanity. 

Now, though, it was time for her own olive branch.

“ _Accio schoolbooks_!” Hermione held out her burlap bag for her things as they flew to her, and then gestured to the seat she’d just cleared off. “Now you can have it,” she said, gracefully settling down on a smaller (but much more comfortable, she found to her delight) armchair next to the couch.  
Sirius just stared at her.

“Close your mouth, Mr. Black,” she said, almost reaching out to do it for him.


	16. Dear Hermione

  
“Out of intense complexities intense simplicities emerge.”   
- _Sir Winston Churchill_

> _Dear Hermione,_
> 
> _GRYFFINDOR!!!_
> 
> _All right, I had to get that out. I woke up so early this morning that the sun was just barely rising, but even so, I don’t think I’d rested that well since I got here. I woke up hugging my pillow, if you can believe it! I’m going to assume that was a result of some dream I was having rather than the coverlet on the pillow being of certain colors._
> 
> _When Lily got back from her meeting, she was very pleased to see the boys and I sitting together quietly studying. Well all right…-I- was quietly studying, -they- were loudly studying (at least, I think they were studying). The point is, we got along, and she couldn’t have been more happy! It won’t take me long to adjust back to having company with me in the evenings and at mealtimes, that’s for certain. The reverse was true in First Year; after spending so much time by myself I had a hard time adjusting to the fact that there were actually people who wanted to sit with me. I don’t even want to think about how many times I yelled at Harry and Ron once we’d become closer—it seemed like they would argue just so I would put down whatever book I had at the time to glare at them. Come to think of it, they probably did._
> 
> _The Marauders have a different kind of camaraderie; rather than argue, they trade witty retorts and reference the many private jokes they have. It places Lily on a different plane of periphery (and now myself as well, though not quite the same one, as I –know- quite a bit of what they’re joking about), but Lily doesn’t really mind. She can join in with the best of them, but seems usually content to observe and intervene when necessary._
> 
> _Ohh, I just had a nice little conversation with one of my new Housemates (she just woke up), Steffie Kirke. I wonder if she is related to Andrew Kirke who played Quidditch with Harry? Anyway, she has the most gorgeous long brown hair (she can sit on it!) but I can’t see if it’s curly yet, because it’s in a braid. She was very nice and told me she doesn’t care a whit whether or not I was in Slytherin at first. She also said she was glad to have another person in the dormitory; I guess since Lily moved to the Head Girl’s private room the extra empty bed had seemed sort of sad to her. She seems very witty and smart—she’s in Charms with me but says I wouldn’t recognize her with her face scrunched up from having been asleep._
> 
> _Meeting Steffie makes me wonder how many other possible relatives of students (like Eunae Zabini) I might meet here. In a way it’s making me feel a –lot- better about my time in the past. In fact I wonder if this is exactly what Professor Dumbledore was thinking of when he told me I could take classes with the other students… I mean, if I took Eunae back with me (as delightful as that sounds) to attend Hogwarts in 1997, almost everyone there besides Blaise would assume they were siblings, instead of aunt (I think, anyway) and nephew._
> 
> _The British wizarding community is rather small, with all of its members (well, -most- of its members) having attended Hogwarts in their youth. Discounting couples like the Potters—who Lily told me had James very late in life—most generations seem to have children around the same time. Harry and I are the same age, and Ron—good lord, right this moment Molly Weasley is pregnant with the twins!_
> 
> _I’m back again. Apparently my gasp of realization about Fred and George woke Juli Warbeck, whose bed is right next to mine. I suspect that she might have already been awake though, from my quill scratching, but she promised me in a shy voice that she was about to get up anyway. I didn’t get to say much to her (I think she’s –really- shy!) but she seems very nice, and has the most beautiful eyes I’ve ever seen—they’re a sort of sea green that reminds me of the time I visited Ireland with my family the year before I got my Hogwarts letter.  
>  Where was I? (I think Professor Dumbledore has turned me into a diarist—this is so much nicer than writing notes on scraps of paper and then losing them and losing my train of thought as a result!) Oh! I know where I was—and why did I write that down? Or this?_
> 
> _I think what I’m trying to say is that if I’m careful to limit how much contact I have with people whose futures I don’t know, I may be able to appear to them (should they ever encounter me in the future) as nothing more than Hermia James’ daughter. I’m almost too excited to write properly, hoping that I’m not turning this into an oversimplification—how I wish for some Muggle ink pens right now! I know that I’m probably just trying to make myself feel better, knowing that no matter what I do or say I’m changing –something- by being here—even if it’s only providing Steffie Kirke with the comfort of knowing that the empty bed isn’t empty anymore. I have no way of knowing how that may effect anything (or nothing) about the way she makes decisions from now on; she may turn out to sleep better and then do better on her exams, thus providing her with a better resume to get a better job, and—_
> 
> _If I keep going like this I’m going to go mental, and I still don’t know what I’ll have to do to get back home. Professor Dumbledore wouldn’t tell me, and it might involve some spell casting—and I don’t know if that would work well if I’m too mad to know what a wand is!_
> 
> _Instead of worrying about what I may or may not be changing, I’ll focus on this new idea of mine. The rationale seems sound—after all, Harry does look remarkably like his father, and parents have named their children after themselves or similarly for centuries._
> 
> _Though why someone named Hermia would choose to inflict any variation of it on a future generation, I wouldn’t know._

“Are ye hopin’ that if ye stay in bed long enough, ye won’ have ta speak ta anyone?” The rich Irish brogue cut into her concentration like a knife, and Hermione was thankful that she’d just lifted her quill from the book, or there’d have been physical proof of her alarm. She looked up to see the bright blue eyes of the person who’d spoken, the girl’s auburn curls obscuring nearly half of her face.

“Good morning,” Hermione said politely, adding, “No, I didn’t want to disturb anyone as I woke very early this morning.”

“Ye did a good job of that,” the newcomer said, ruthlessly restraining her hair with a hair tie. “I nearly slept in,” she explained. “Fiona McCready,” she said, in what Hermione was beginning to understand to be Fiona’s typical manner of speech. “I’ll pass on shakin’ yer hand, as I’m no a fan of that ink,” McCready said, pointing at the smudges on Hermione’s fingers.

“That’s understandable,” Hermione said agreeably, rising from the bed and putting away her things as the other girl disappeared behind her bedcurtains to dress. Hermione did the same, making sure to lock her diary with its keyword and stoppering her ink bottle tightly before placing it in her bag. Fiona had a point about the ink, after all. As if Hermione’s thoughts could conjure her, the Irishwoman reappeared nearby and waited for her to finish with her book bag.

“I’m also no a big fan of Slytherin,” she said bluntly. “Seein’ as yer a transfer an’ no been with ‘em fer long, though, I don’ see how I can hold it against ye.”

“Thank you, Miss McCready,” Hermione said, accepting the girl’s statement in the spirit with which it was given.

“Call me Fiona,” the other girl said, her bright eyes flashing with mirth. “Callin’ me ‘McCready’ makes me feel like me mam.”

Hermione had never met anyone like Fiona, and she found herself being bustled off down the stairs and through the portrait hole on the way to breakfast. She supposed it was a good idea, considering she would have had a hard time explaining how as an ex-Slytherin she would unerringly know the way from the Gryffindor tower to the Great Hall.

=====

The next few days were strange; though the classes were all the same, her profile in them had heightened considerably. By Thursday Hermione was despairing of all the attention, and had even started to regret her move—it may have made her feel better, but she didn’t think it was worth the cost of being known on sight by so many of the students in the past! Lily was aware of her stress, and assumed that it was all because of a desire for anonymity. Which, in a way, it was. She had spent the past couple of days trying to make Hermione as comfortable as she could be, showing her around the Gryffindor tower (there was a well-concealed room that had once been a House library that Hermione couldn’t wait to go back and explore further) to show her around Hogsmeade in a week when the next school outing was.

The highlight of her school week, however, came on Thursday in Defense Against the Dark Arts. The professor here in 1977 was a really interesting woman named Vera Sapiens, and her upfront approach to the class reminded Hermione greatly of Professor Lupin. She was certain after only a few classes with the woman that she had to have been a driving force behind Remus’ teaching style and obvious love of the material. Professor Sapiens liked to stalk through the room, her long golden braid tapping against the back of her robes as she challenged everyone in their N.E.W.T.-level course to ask questions and pose solutions.

Thursday’s lesson began in a way much the same as one of her Third Year DADA classes had—they walked into the room to find their desks had been moved into a semi-circle around a large wardrobe in the center of the room. Hermione, Remus, James, and Severus among others came through the door cautiously, but remained in a clump at the back—their first lesson had taught them that Professor Sapiens liked to ‘think outside the box.’ She also had absolutely no patience for inter-house rivalries, so as the dozen or so students decided what to do, they disregarded the fact that quite a few of them were from Gryffindor and Slytherin.

After conferring with one another in their huddle against the wall—the professor was nowhere to be found, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t see them—they decided to take turns casting detecting charms on every desk before allowing anyone to sit. The first few proved to be harmless, but when James cast his charm, the desk he’d pointed to revealed that it had been enchanted with a Buzzing Jinx. Anyone sitting there would have begun to hear and feel as though he were surrounded by a cloud of bees. A few minutes later, Snape also unveiled a jinxed desk, this one looked to be fitted with a typical Encasing Jinx, trapping the hapless victim in place for an indeterminate period of time. The sound of clapping and an opening door caused quite a few of the class to crouch down in anticipation of…something.

“Well done—oh, Merlin, I’m sorry,” apologized Professor Sapiens. “I sometimes forget that fostering awareness and heightened senses can make ordinary things seem threatening.”

“You have a high opinion of us if you think we receive applause on a regular basis,” quipped Constance Lewis, a clever Ravenclaw.

“I know I do!” retorted James. The class laughed.

“Quidditch on the brain,” sighed Remus.

“Well, on with the lesson, shall we?” As she spoke, Vera Sapiens disabled the jinxes she’d placed on their seats, and gestured that they take them. “No more tricks, I promise you—I want you to pay attention, now.” This seemed sufficient evidence to the class that she was telling the truth. “Before I forget—five points each to Gryffindor and Slytherin for your successful discovery of the effected chairs, and a point to everyone’s House for not simply trouping in and sitting. I’m very proud of all of you.” She beamed.

“I know I’ve taught you that knowing your enemy’s weakness is an advantage, and so with this lesson I hope I have already established myself as a friend—because you’re about to learn one of mine,” Professor Sapiens said with a smile. This piqued everyone’s curiosity, particularly because of the large wardrobe that still stood waiting in the center of the room. It looked as though the mystery was about to be revealed, however. “There’s a boggart in there,” Sapiens said, gently touching the side of the wardrobe with her hand. It rattled, ominously. “I trust you’ve studied them in a previous year?”

Hermione couldn’t resist a glance at Lupin, as she had fond memories of his lesson on boggarts. She didn’t _dare_ look at Snape, however. Remus looked a little upset, and she thought she might know why—she’d learned during that Third Year class that _his_ boggart was the full moon. Even in 1993 he’d seemed fairly unnerved by it, and that was after the invention of the Wolfsbane potion…Remus seemed to sense that someone was looking at him, and he turned in her direction, smiling a little when he saw who it was. She smiled back, hoping to alleviate some of his anxiety about the boggart.

“The truth is,” Professor Sapiens was saying, “ _my_ boggart is a Dementor.” Suddenly, Hermione had an idea of what they might be learning that day, and she turned out to be right: “I told the Headmaster that the first boggart discovered this year should be used not only for the younger students to learn about boggarts, but to teach you Seventh Years about the Patronus Charm.” A hushed sort of excitement hung over the room—this was an unexpected treat. “Now I don’t expect that any of you will have to experience the effects of a Dementor,” she said with a shake of her head, “but it never hurts to know the incantation. It is a particularly _difficult_ incantation, as well—please repeat after me: ‘ _Expecto Patronum_.’”

The class dutifully spoke the words, Hermione with mixed feelings. The professor’s statement stung her, as she tried with difficulty to forget the fact that not only would one of their number be in the presence of Dementors, but he would be forced to do so for many years. On the other hand, she was quite proud of her ability to produce a corporeal Patronus, and though she would never admit it to anyone, she _liked_ to be able to show her skill in magic.

Professor Sapiens explained that it would be understandably more difficult for them to produce a Patronus (she explained the difference between corporeal and wisp-like) when they weren’t being directly threatened, but that it was much easier to do so with _something_ , rather than just thin air. Hermione expressed concern for her, as she would be experiencing a fair representation of the effects of a Dementor, but Vera Sapiens assured her that if the experience became too much for her, she would simply cast her own Patronus and force the boggart back into the wardrobe.

To Hermione’s embarrassment, the teacher then suggested that she be the first to attempt the charm. Hermione was torn—she didn’t want to explain _where_ she’d learned the spell, but neither did she wish to do a poor job on purpose. When the professor opened the wardrobe door decisively and the black-clad Dementor moved menacingly from behind the clothes inside, however, she was out of other options.

“’ _Expecto Patronum_!’” she cried, flinging her wand hand in the direction of the horrible creature. As she had known it would, the mist that started to flow from the tip of the wand coalesced into the form of an otter, which then charged directly at the hovering Dementor, forcing it back into the wardrobe.

The class erupted in a cacophony of cheers, applause, and exclamations. Hermione turned scarlet as she turned to face the rest of the room; she hadn’t expected such a response! The sounds turned to mostly admiration as her otter returned to nuzzle her hand before fading away, no longer required for its positive presence.

“What an outstanding performance!” Professor Sapiens came over to stand next to her. “ _Twenty_ points to Gryffindor,” she said firmly, against Hermione’s objections. “Even if you have practiced that before, my dear,” the blonde teacher said in a voice that brooked no argument, “it is very difficult to do that in front of a room of your peers. Now,” she addressed the room, “does anyone else feel they can produce a corporeal Patronus? If not, I’m willing to submit myself to a collective try.”

“I’ll sit that one out,” offered Hermione with a sheepish grin. The remaining hour was spent with varying degrees of success from the students in the class. James Potter managed to launch what looked an awful lot like a stag, which charged the boggart-Dementor and dissolved into a mist that dragged the thing into the wardrobe nonetheless. From her vantage point in the back of the room, Hermione also spied Severus Snape waving his hands in the air in a completely absurd fashion, as though he were trying to get rid of whatever it was he’d conjured. If she hadn’t thought it was a little farfetched, she’d have sworn the silvery substance was in the shape of an octopus. If it was, that might explain why Snape was in such a hurry to dissipate it—something as gangly as an octopus would probably be the antithesis of what he expected others to see as his protector. She didn’t have time to contemplate the meaning of both of them having sea creatures as their guardians as it was time to wrap things up.

Hermione had a pleasant walk down to the Potions classroom with Remus, after which she spent a few moments musing on the merits of an octopus Patronus for Snape (effectively creates a potion within itself—ink—that it uses for defense, very clever at problem solving…) before she finally focused on the lesson for that day. A beaming wink from Slughorn as class adjourned let her know that he’d gotten her letter, and the reaction itself told her how it had been received.

At dinner she had quite a few people catch her eye and raise their glasses to her—word had gotten out about her earning twenty points for Gryffindor on the second day of being one. By the time she entered the common room that night, the looks she received from the majority of the students there were approving. It looked like the best thing she could have done for her reputation in Gryffindor was prove her loyalty by earning a substantial chunk of House points. She spent the rest of the evening with her Charms book, calmed by the knowledge that it was much easier for people to forget someone that did a good thing than it was to forget someone they disliked.

=====

> _Dear Hermione,_
> 
> _I saw the moon tonight—it will be full tomorrow._
> 
> _I find I cannot sleep, knowing that tomorrow night one of the kindest, most gentle men I have ever known will be transformed against his will into a monster. Even knowing that he will be surrounded by friends doesn’t help, because I know for a fact that one friendship is tainted. WILL BE tainted, all right, then—my internal sense of right and wrong won’t even let me WRITE that without bothering me._
> 
> _Maybe I am going about this whole thing the wrong way. I am so worried about changing the future, but what I think about when I worry is seeing myself marching up to James or Sirius and saying ‘Peter will betray you.’_
> 
> _But…even if I did that and they stopped him, they would still feel betrayed. Even if Harry got to have parents and Sirius lived a full and happy life without ever seeing the inside of Azkaban, they would still have that black mark on their hearts from losing a friend—and in –that- kind of way._
> 
> _I wrote earlier about the endless second-guessing that comes with time travel theory. Maybe I can use the ‘fluttering butterfly’ effect in a completely different way altogether—if I could extrapolate that Steffie could end up with a better job simply from having someone sleeping in a formerly empty bed, what would being nice to Peter Pettigrew do to our future?_
> 
> _Of course, this all falls apart the second I write it. Aren’t James, Remus, Lily, and Sirius nice to Peter? Maybe it’s not being –nice- as much as it is nice in a particular –way-._
> 
> _What made (MAKES!) Peter turn his back on the others? What kind of inadequacies that couldn’t be solved by becoming an animagus with James and Sirius does he feel?_
> 
> _Could it be as simple as a false step he feels he can’t turn back from?  
>  All I know is, I can still hear Sirius’ adult voice saying that he would die rather than betray his friends. If I have to be nice to Peter, if I have to try to figure him out and in so doing save the lives of my friends, I will._


	17. September Moon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I have a huge chunk written already, and as I revise them to post, I'm about 15 chapters ahead, and I keep thinking how excited I am to see how you all like them, then I realize it'll still be a week or more before you get there, and I get sad, and post a second chapter a day, lol. At some point I'll catch up and the wait will be longer, but I just can't help myself!

  
In this proud land we grew up strong  
We were wanted all along  
I was taught to fight, taught to win  
I never thought I could fail  
- _Don’t Give Up, Peter Gabriel_

 

“So, an Otter, huh?” Lily asked Hermione at breakfast on Friday. Hermione shot a cross look to James, who had suddenly become very engrossed in the action of pouring himself a fresh glass of pumpkin juice. The one side effect she hadn’t predicted was the fact that now her type of Patronus had become common knowledge, something that her DADA classmate had apparently contributed to by boasting.

“Yes, it’s an otter. No, I don’t have a special affection for sea animals,” she recited dutifully, adding, “No, I don’t want to go down to the lake with you to see if there are any living there.”

Sirius’ head shot up and his brow furrowed slightly. “No one asked you that, did they?”

“Overprotective much?” Lily suggested without looking at him.

“Yeah, that’s it,” Sirius said quickly, his ears turning red. His reaction seemed very strange, and Hermione couldn’t quite fathom why. She shook her head in response to his question.

“No, I just added that for shock value,” she admitted.

“That’s my girl,” Lily approved, throwing an arm around Hermione for a quick hug. Just then, Hermione noticed that someone was missing.

“Where’s Remus?” she asked, congratulating herself on the ability to say it without so much as a sign of hesitation anymore. The four others exchanged nervous glances, and Hermione remembered why she’d had some trouble getting to sleep the night before.

“He wasn’t feeling well this morning,” James finally said; Lily feigned surprise and concern at the news. Hermione realized she’d put her new friends in an awkward position, but wasn’t quite sure how to help them out of it.

“But…how will he eat?” she asked as the thought occurred to her.

“Don’t worry,” Sirius assured her, “I’ll take him something—I always do.” Before he even finished saying it, his eyes widened as he realized the importance of the clue. A slow flush started at his collar, and their friends at that end of the table shuffled their food around, not wanting to draw attention to the faux pas. Hermione knew she could smooth it over without appearing as if she had even caught any kind of implication whatsoever.

“He must be grateful to have a friend like you if he turns up ill often,” she said without lifting her eyes from her schoolbook; she was trying to foster the impression that she hadn’t noticed his discomfort.

“He’s worth it,” Sirius blurted out, clearly not even having to think about the declaration at all. Hermione was touched. She looked up from her notes to see Sirius smiling at her; when their eyes met, her stomach did an odd sort of flip-flop and she could feel her own heartbeat. James and Lily began speaking about something else, but still they held their gaze, breaking only when Hermione’s book started to close without the pressure of her hand to hold it open. She didn’t have long to analyze what had just happened, however.

“Charms soon,” reminded Lily. Hermione nodded and started to gather her things as the boys went to discard the morning’s rubbish. Just as she’d hefted her heavy bag to her shoulder, Sirius came up behind her to comment on it.

“That strap is going to break if you keep carrying them all with you everywhere,” he observed.

“No help from you,” she said, turning around to give him a bright smile. He was standing fairly close, and Hermione caught a scent she didn’t quite recognize—so she leaned closer to sniff his shoulder.

=====

Sirius couldn’t have been more delighted to find that this intriguing girl turned out to have been a Gryffindor all along. He was pleased…for Lily’s sake, of course—he couldn’t remember when he’d seen her so happy to have a friend with similar interests. At least, that was what he told himself. It was even better that she seemed to be able to hold her own in their little banter wars— _more_ than hold her own, at times, he admitted. He also told himself that he was lucky she was so studious, or he might be in for trouble…and then she leaned over and sniffed his shoulder.

 _Wisteria_. He could smell it again, and this time there was no mistaking the source. Life is long, he told himself, _I’m sure there’s more than one woman whose hair smells like this!_ That she was the first and only one he’d met so far was beside the point, and not worth dwelling on. This internal dialogue didn’t stop him from taking a deep breath of the fragrance he liked so much, however, now that he had the chance.

“Is she— _smelling_ you, Sirius?” James asked incredulously.

“Appears to be,” he replied gently, not wanting to deafen the girl out of proximity.

“I’m sorry!” she said, sounding a little flustered. “It’s just that I recognized something but I couldn’t figure out where I knew the smell from.” Something in the tone of her voice told Sirius that she wasn’t _quite_ giving the real reason, a suspicion that made him feel a strange sort of warmth deep inside. She was holding something back, he was sure of it—and it might be about _him_.

“Did you find out what it was?” he asked her in the same gentle voice. She looked up at him to see him looking down at her, and her cheeks took on a reddish tinge. _Definitely about me…_

“Err—evergreen,” she stated, stepping away from him guiltily.

“Oh,” James said, sounding a little disappointed. “His trunks are packed with the stuff—mum does it. Mine’s done with cedar.” He looked at Sirius and gestured to the great wooden doors with a jerk of his head. “Ready to go?”

“Yes,” Sirius asserted, wrapping a few muffins in a napkin and placing them in a pocket. “Just need to take these to Remus.” As he spoke, he snuck a look at Hermia under his lashes. At the sound of Lupin’s name, her face suffused with a brilliant smile. 

_Not good._

“I think it’s lovely that you do that,” she said, echoing her earlier statements. She and Lily then started off in the direction of Professor Flitwick’s classroom, and James gave him a short wave as he headed to his first class.

_Definitely not good._

=====

“Is that a herd of elephants or is it Sirius Black with my muffins?” Remus said as Sirius entered their dormitory.

“It’s your hearing, Moony—I tiptoed up the stairs,” he lied.

“You and about five other people,” Lupin said with a grimace, reaching for his breakfast. “They could have been on other floors, however.” He shook his head as Sirius settled himself on the foot of the bed and propped his feet up near Remus’ pillow. “I keep thinking this will get easier, like I’ll get used to it,” he said in a resigned voice.

“You will,” Sirius said, nudging his friend with a stockinged foot. “You still have seventy-odd years to learn how.”

“Yes, if the smell of your feet don't kill me first!” Remus swatted at the attacking feet with mock alarm. “What’s wrong?” he asked, seeing his friend take on a faraway look.

“What? Oh, nothing,” Sirius had been thinking about the look on Hermia’s face the times she’d praised him for taking care of Remus. “Our new friend seems to think I’m quite the champion for bringing you breakfast when you’re ill.” He phrased it as though it were a subject change.

“Ah, but is she pleased that _I’m_ being taken care of, or pleased that _you’re_ acting the part of a good friend?” Remus asked, the question barely discernible through a mouth full of food.

“That’s what I’d like to know,” Sirius said without thinking. Remus sat up.

“Do you fancy her?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” Sirius answered, truthfully.

“What’s the problem?” Remus questioned, as he fastidiously picked every fallen crumb from his comforter. Sirius knew what the other boy meant—usually if he liked a girl, he asked her out; he’d never vacillated over this kind of decision before.

“I don’t know,” he repeated, and then started over. “She’s not really my type—she’s bookish, and not at all—” he stopped, unsure exactly what he meant.

“Flashy?” Remus supplied with an impish grin that earned him more foot prodding.

“I do _not_ fancy flashy girls!” Sirius protested hotly. “I just meant that—she doesn’t know she’s pretty,” he finished, his ears turning slightly red as he hoped Remus wouldn’t think it was a silly thing to say.

“Well, if you don’t say something when you feel it, Sirius, you may turn out to be too late,” was the disturbing reply.

“What’s that supposed to mean, Remus?” he asked, sitting a little straighter against the bedpost. 

Lupin just looked at him oddly. He looked as if he wanted to ask something, wanted really badly to ask it, but all he said was, “Have you been drinking coffee in the mornings again, Sirius? You seem a little on edge.”

“I think you need a long run in the woods, Moony,” Sirius countered, a little frustrated at his friend’s clever deflection of his question but knowing Remus enough not to push.

“We all do,” Lupin said with a sigh. “Go to class, Padfoot.”

=====

“Do you think Mr. Lupin might want my notes from Transfiguration?” Hermione asked at lunch. She tried to phrase it as though she were just interested in his academic welfare and not a personal interest, but it was all in vain—she still earned herself some raised eyebrows from the group. “I just meant, I know he’s not feeling well, and none of you lot seem like avid note-takers…” her voice trailed off.

“First of all, it’s ‘Remus,’ _Hermia_ —you were doing so well this morning,” James said, emphasizing the fact that they were all on a first-name basis.

“Duly noted, James,” Hermione said, rallying a little. “I think I phrased that earlier bit just a little off—”

“You phrased it just fine,” laughed Peter, interrupting her. 

“I would do the same for any of you!” she protested.

“I’d stop, before you put your foot in,” Lily said with a cheeky grin.

“Oh!” Hermione huffed in despair, giving up and putting her head down rather harshly on her Arithmancy book. The pressure proved too much for her hair knot, and it gave way in an impressive display that mirrored her current emotions.

“Now, _that_ is an exclamation point, ladies and gentlemen,” Sirius announced in admiration.

“You’re all against me,” Hermione said in a miserable tone that was muffled by her contact with the table.

“No, we’re not,” Peter protested.

“If you want to take care of Remus, we’d be glad to help you,” goaded James, who earned a sharp pinch from Lily for his contribution.

“If you knew what the Bat-Bogey Hex was, you’d be watching what you say right now,” Hermione threatened in a slightly clearer voice.

“That doesn’t sound good,” Peter said seriously.

“You’re right,” James agreed. “We should probably lay off about—” Hermione’s head popped up “—everything.” Sirius leaned away from his friend, clearly trying to avoid the blast zone.

“Sic him, Hermia!” he encouraged. 

She shook her head, adding ominously, “Nah, there’d be too much collateral damage,” she said, raising an eyebrow.

“I think an apology is in order?” James gulped.

“No, it’s all right,” Hermione said expansively. “You needed a good indication of how far you could go before I snap.” At the word ‘snap,’ she shut her book with a sharp crack, causing the hazel-eyed boy to jump.

Sirius Black found that he was starting to have a lot more respect for bookish females.

“So, are you coming tonight, Sirius?” James asked with a sidelong glance at Hermione—obviously hoping that it was all right for him to start up conversation. Sirius just stared at him, however, and Hermione wondered what Harry’s dad could be thinking—clearly Sirius couldn’t answer a question like _that_ in front of her.

“Uh…” Sirius was buying time.

“For Quidditch? Tryouts are tonight, I thought you said you’d come watch?” Hermione couldn’t help letting out a giggle as the tension of the moment drained away. Sirius groaned, however.

“Haven’t you been hounded for the whole week with questions about it?” he asked in a voice that pretty much said, ‘what can I do to get out of this?’

“If you need an audience, I can come watch,” Hermione offered on the spur of the moment.

“I thought you hated flying,” Sirius said, all but clapping his hand over his mouth when he realized what he’d done.

“Lily!” Hermione said, stamping her foot in annoyance.

“I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to tell him,” Lily said contritely. “It’s just that I remembered that you had said it when we saw the class on the lawn outside of Herbology.”

“Yeah, that’ll make her feel better,” Sirius whispered to Lily with obvious sarcasm.

“I _knew_ people could see us from through those windows!” Hermione covered her face with her hands and put her head back down on the table, her voice starting to gain the high-pitched tone that showed her distress.

“All we could see were shapes—moving, blurry shapes,” Lily said, trying to console her.

“Right,” Hermione piped up from between her fingers, “and one very slowly moving shape.”

“Well, it’s very hard to fly and study at the same time,” James said reaching out to pat her hand comfortingly. “Next time you should probably leave the book behind.” All of them heard a cough that sounded suspiciously like a giggle from behind the barrier of hair that had fallen around Hermione’s face when she put her head down.

“Enough with the patting!” she finally said, lifting her head and snatching her hand back, as James hadn’t ceased when he’d finished speaking. “Shouldn’t you be harassing people to join the Gryffindor Quidditch Team?” she asked pointedly. James just grinned at her.

“I have plenty wanting to _join_ , I just need to make sure they’re the best fliers,” he stood up as he was speaking and playfully punched Sirius on the shoulder for emphasis. “Walk me to the pitch, Lily?” he asked, his tone of voice altering from playful to respectful so subtly that Hermione would bet he didn’t even notice. Lily did, however.

“Of course,” she said, standing and bestowing a loving smile. “You didn’t think you could keep me away, did you?”

=====

The day was coming to a close, and Sirius’ stomach was a ball of excitement as he walked up the stairs to put his things away. Remus was already gone, his bed still warm. A bit of disturbed blanket at the end of the bed indicated that he’d had a visitor. Sirius leaned over to touch the spot, sending a mental ‘thank you’ to the Headmaster for his yearly ritual.

Albus Dumbledore made sure to be the one to escort Remus to his confinement on the first full moon of the school year—had been doing so ever since First Year. Sirius was certain that he did it both from a deep caring for the boy, but also as a means of reassuring him that not only did the faculty know of his condition, they approved of his attendance. Sirius knew Remus better than anybody, and he wished he could tell the professor just how much this meant to Remus—and himself. It was easy for Remus to tell himself that the love of a few of his peers was enough, but the reaffirmation of Professor Dumbledore’s caring each year had a profound impact on the way his friend saw himself.

He knew just how important it was that the adults in one’s life approved and cared for you. The past summer spent with James’ parents had been the most fulfilling (and amusing) time he’d ever spent away from Hogwarts. Instead of the constant bickering and criticism such as that in his own family, the Potters lived their lives in happiness, and had been more than pleased to accept him into their home as a second son.

The biggest gift they’d given him—besides their love, a roof over his head, and good home-cooked meals—was the gift of being able to life his life on his own terms. Not that he had spent the summer doing whatever he wanted, but for all that Sirius was popular and energetic and talented, he also needed time to himself. Time that his mother had delighted in denying him. During the summers he’d spent in the Black home he would get so keyed up and anxious from the lack of power that it often took him a month or more to regain control of himself once he’d gotten back to school. During the worst of those times came a trick played on Snape and Remus…

Sirius didn’t allow himself to dwell on the past. Once he’d left the environs of the Black family he had told himself that he was a new person, without the baggage of the past to drag him down to the dark places. He had new memories to make, new ties to forge, and the summer spent with the Potters had been everything he’d dreamed of, and more.

And tonight, he would spend the evening with the three best friends a bloke could have.

He’d been looking forward to this for a month. Sirius had begun a tradition the year before of not allowing himself to transform for a full month before school began. It was his way of reminding himself of how he had learned to do it, and more importantly, _why_. It had taken a _great_ deal of self-control this year, for the Potters lived on a large plot of land bordering a wood—the many different deer he’d seen over the course of that summer made him understand where James had come up with his stag.

The only thing that Sirius regretted was the inability to explain to others how exhilarating the transformation was, how amazing it felt to be in a different form. He would have loved to be able to talk over the finer points of ‘animagus theory’ with Professor McGonagall, for example. The secrecy was important, however. Just as being a werewolf was a socially reprehensible thing, so was breaking the law—and he, James, and Peter had done just that by becoming animagi without telling anyone. He liked to think that this gave Remus the feeling that they were somewhat on the same grounds as he.

Sirius had reached the clearing in front of the Whomping Willow by the time he was finished with his reverie. As he approached the top of the low hill, he saw the majestic figure of James’ stag, his head lifted to the sky. The intricate weaving of antlers looked like fingers reaching up to the moon, the glowing orb not yet visible but shrouded in clouds. Peter stood next to James, scratching him behind an ear with an amused expression on his face.

“You’re spoiling the silhouette,” Sirius whispered with laughter in his voice.  
“You know how he gets,” Peter whispered back.

“Yeah, that one spot riiiight behind one ear,” Sirius reached over to demonstrate. James lifted a hoof and brushed the ground gently, unable to communicate in any other way.

“We should get going,” Peter said. “It’ll be coming out from behind those clouds any minute now.” Sirius nodded.

From a distance, an observer would have seen two figures running with obvious joy toward the dangerous outline of the Whomping Willow. The dog raced in circles around the loping stag, coming quite close to his hooves at times but never close enough to trip them up. Far ahead of them, the wavering branches of the Willow became quite still, for the third member of their party had run ahead to make a safe path for the others.

As they reached the trunk, the stag reared back and tore the air with his hooves, making an impressive tableau with his antlers against the cloudy sky before melting away to a human form that crawled through the tunnel to rejoin his companions.


	18. Awakening

  
“It is our choices that show what we really are, far more than our abilities.”  
- _Albus Dumbledore_

 

Sirius whistled as he navigated the quirky stairways down from the Gryffindor tower. A groggy James had asked his friend to take a letter to the Owlery to send to his parents, something that he was more than happy to do. Ever since he’d left his family and moved in with the Potters, he’d loved to get up in the mornings—though his mother had loved to criticize everything he did, Mrs. Black had especially liked to do it during breakfast. After sixteen years of dreading the start of a new day, Sirius now welcomed it, especially on weekends. 

Though Peter, Remus, and James were all asleep after a long night, he felt energized by their adventure, and had gotten scarcely an hour or more of sleep. He knew that Professor Dumbledore would have been horrified to know that sometimes Remus exited his hideaway in the Shrieking Shack and went exploring—with three unregistered animagi, no less. Sirius felt confident that he could subdue a werewolf if need be, however. The only one of them that need worry at all was Peter, and he was so good at disappearing out of sight in times of danger that Sirius knew he could take care of himself.

The castle and grounds had a sort of a hushed quality to them, the latter being brushed lightly by a fog that had come up from the lake. It was a beautiful morning that had followed a gorgeous night—the kind filled with a canopy of stars (the clouds had lifted not long after midnight), a carpet of springy leaves, and a forest populated with interesting creatures. 

The recollection made him want to run again—but not the kind of running done on two legs. The kind that made him sometimes feel as though his heart might just break with the joyous feeling of his muscles moving in concert with one another and how the earth looked different when you could race across it on four legs. Sirius considered running all the way to the Owlery, but decided that he wasn’t likely to impress any post owls if he were out of breath when he tied his letter to their leg.

=====

Hermione didn’t think that even Ron or Harry knew that sometimes she liked to go to the Owlery and listen to the sounds of the many-feathered residents of Hogwarts. She found that the movement and noise helped clear her thoughts, especially on days before exams when she was so keyed up she could hardly sleep. Today, she felt like her mind was racing, mainly from overload, and while she could have filled her new journal with a lot of meaningless drivel, Hermione decided to try the Owlery first.

When she got there, she was pleased to see that the stone room looked much the same as it did in her time, though with different birds, of course. She patrolled the floor at a leisurely pace—it was generally a bad idea to stay still in a place like this—looking at the varied breeds of owls. Something felt wrong to her, and it took her three circuits of the round room before she remembered that Hedwig wouldn’t be here for another fourteen years or so.

Already the cacophony of sound had worked to dispel her mind of the repetitive thoughts that had been plaguing her. It was loud enough that she didn’t hear footsteps on the stone staircase leading to the tower that housed the bird habitat.

=====

Sirius was grinning as he mounted the stairs of the tower that held the Owlery. He’d peeked at James’ letter—after all, the Potters considered him as their second son, and he figured they wouldn’t mind. Prongs had asked them for a Muggle catalogue of motorcycle parts. That in and of itself was amusing, considering that James’ elderly parents probably would have no idea what a motorbike _was_ , but were so devoted to their son that they would undoubtedly try to comply with his request.

The other reason he was so delighted would probably have gotten him a fine and a severe talking-to from the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts division of the Ministry. He and James were attempting to modify an old Muggle motorcycle into a sort of a cross between a motorbike and a broom—without the broom. Sirius felt a rush of affection toward his friend as he rounded the stairs and approached the room at the top. He stopped at the doorway to check his pockets for the bit of cracker he kept as incentive for quick delivery, and noticed that someone was already inside.

It was Hermia James. She was pacing in a slow circle, her back to him, and he remained on the threshold for a long moment, deciding what to do.

“The ones on the northern wall go the farthest distances,” Sirius said at last, careful to speak in a low voice, as he didn’t wish to frighten her. She jumped a little, startled but saying nothing; instead she turned slowly in a full circle looking at the walls of owls as if trying to discern which one was north. He smiled, adding, “The ones around the doorway, to the south, are usually used for messages within Hogwarts’ grounds.” He was rather pleased with himself for answering her question without making her ask it; the second he’d connected ‘south’ with ‘doorway’ she’d turned away from him to examine the owls on the wall opposite. “Is your family quite far?” he asked politely. Sirius decided that she must miss them very much; she nodded with a sad sort of smile. He took a few steps into the room, as the breeze at this height was pretty chilly.

“Yours?” she asked, and then she did something that baffled him—she clamped her hand over her mouth and apologized to him in a stricken voice. Sirius felt a rush of annoyance at what she might have heard from the students in Slytherin.

=====

Hermione could have kicked herself. Twice. First, for asking the question—she knew very well that Sirius did not get on at all well with his family. Second, for her reaction after she’d asked it…there was no rational explanation as to how she, as a new student, would know his family situation—unless she’d engaged in gossip or similar. She felt sick to think of what his opinion would be of her now. She racked her brain, trying to think of any conversation she’d had with Lily or anyone else about Sirius—and then she remembered the evergreen. James had stated that his mother packed Sirius’ trunk with evergreen, and his own with cedar—that implied that he stayed with the Potters.

Hermione wondered why she didn’t just run up to Dumbledore’s office and demand that he sequester her for the remainder of her time here. Even when she thought she was being incredibly careful, she still ended up making slips—and who could tell how badly she would slip up next time? Now, however, she needed to stop standing there looking ashamed of herself and come up with a rational explanation for her behavior.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she said, acting as though there hadn’t been about three minutes of strained silence since she’d last spoken. “It’s just that James mentioned his mother packing your trunk, and since your last names aren’t the same…” she trailed off, hoping that would be sufficient, which it appeared to be, as Sirius had visibly relaxed during her explanation. On impulse she walked up to him and placed her hand on his arm, shocked to feel an almost electric connection between them as she did so. “I’m really sorry if I reminded you of anything unhappy,” she said earnestly.

=====

When Hermia came to stand next to him he felt as if he could _feel_ his own heartbeat—but when she touched him, his arm felt almost as if she were made of fire. _Just a normal attraction_ , he told himself, not that it felt normal in any way whatsoever. Exciting, yes—normal, no. Her apology was heartfelt, and he felt like a complete cad for his earlier assumptions. Hermia’s small hand squeezed his arm with a force that emphasized her intensity but also told him that she was a strong person in character, if not in body.

“They took me in, after I left home,” he found himself saying. “My ‘real’ family couldn’t care less,” he said harshly, turning his head away from her so that she couldn’t see the bitterness on his face. Instead of speaking, the girl at his side simply waited for him to endure the course of his emotions with a patience and dignity that impressed him. When he turned back to her, his eyes were moist but his cheeks were dry.

“If they didn’t care that you left, then they weren’t your real family,” she observed in a quiet voice. He looked down at her then, and she looked back gravely, an expression of compassionate honesty in her deep brown eyes. “I’m sorry that your life brought you to that point,” she said softly, “but I’m glad you did it.” She looked almost as if she wanted to touch his face, but instead she flashed him a quick smile and turned away without another word.

Sirius barely heard her footsteps receding down the stone stairs; he was too busy trying to breathe as gasping sobs racked his body. He slid down the rough wall and rested his head on his arms, unable and unwilling to fight the tears. He realized as he wept that he’d never really mourned for himself, for the knowledge that his family didn’t care for him, nor would they ever. Somehow, Hermia’s quiet words and silent encouragement had broken the dam, and as his tears subsided he understood that this was something he had desperately needed. 

Right there in the Owlery was the first time Sirius had ever shed tears without worrying about what anyone might think, or being ridiculed by someone—Mrs. Black had abhorred tears, and had beat him as young as three years old for crying. He’d only even _spoken_ about the subject once, with James in Sixth Year. James had told him what his father had always said about crying—‘do it once a year, whether you need to or not,’ the elder Potter espoused. Sirius had remarked that the saying was supposed to be ‘take a bath.’ James had looked at him in a way that Sirius was _sure_ had been the way Fleamont Potter had looked during the exact same conversation with his son, and said, ‘what’s the difference?’

That had been the night Sirius had decided once and for all to leave his own family and see if he could live with James.

=====

Hermione hoped that Sirius didn’t mind how quickly she fled the Owlery. The connection she had felt when she’d touched him had frankly frightened her. Hermione had never felt anything like it before, and something told her that the way they reacted to each other meant something, something more than just a new friendship being created.

She wondered what it was that seemed to take over her sometimes, make her react so protectively about and with her friends. She’d known that Sirius had run away from home at sixteen and gone to live with James, but seeing his reaction to the situation less than a year after it happened had made it so much more real to her. She was reminded of something Harry had said the day before her adventure began in Dumbledore’s office, something about not realizing that Sirius had had a life before the tragic events that sent him to prison. As soon as she’d seen how deeply hurt he had been by his family’s rejection, she’d felt like marching straight up to Mrs. Walburga Black and decking her in the face.

She thought she would have thoroughly enjoyed the experience, too.

Considering the fact that most of her Gryffindor friends would be sleeping for a long time yet (she had no idea how Sirius managed to look so awake; she knew that he must have been out all night with the rest of the Marauders), Hermione decided to do her studies outdoors, like the week before. If and when James woke up, he might start holding Quidditch tryouts, and she wanted to watch those, as well.

=====

Hours later, she was very glad of her decision. The weather had turned out to be fabulous, bright and sunny with hardly any wind—which was exactly how she liked it, considering all the loose pieces of parchment she had with her just itching to blow away. Hermione stretched out on her stomach with an array of books, parchment, notes, and quills in front of her, and as the sun came out behind a cloud to bestow warm rays on her back, she laid her head down to enjoy the feeling.

“That’s a very interesting method of studying,” an acid voice woke her by saying. “Would you term that as ‘osmosis?’” She rolled to her side and off of the open book she’d fallen asleep on, having to shield her eyes from the brightness until a black-clad figure blocked the sun for her. It was Severus Snape.

“Studies show that a fifteen minute nap often invigorates the mind and restores one’s concentration,” she said, defending her actions pertly.

“In that case, I’d say you’re about twenty-five minutes over your limit,” Snape said sardonically.

“You weren’t watching me for forty minutes,” she challenged.

“Au contraire,” he countered, gesturing to a nearby blanket and collection of books. The blanket was a very dull plaid done in greyscale—it was clear that he was telling the truth.

“Well,” she said, her confidence flagging a little, “at least you won’t claim that I snore.”

“You don’t.” Snape moved away from his position in front of her and the sudden introduction of sunlight dazzled her blind for a moment. “You wheeze,” came the delayed rejoinder from somewhere to her left.

Hermione was beginning to simultaneously respect and _loathe_ his ability to score hits off of her so effortlessly.

“If you dislike me so much, why don’t you sit somewhere else?”

“For your information, I _always_ sit here—and I have no intention of changing my habits for one person, no matter how much noise they make in their sleep,” he said, his tone of voice not quite matching the severity of his words—though that might have had more to do with how difficult it was to maintain correct posture when propped up against a tree.

“Well, that’s good to know,” she said, sitting up and arranging her notes in a more orderly fashion. “I’ll be sure not to bother holding back, next time.” She thought she could see him nodding his approval out of the corner of her eye, but didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of looking up as though his validation meant anything to her. They passed the next hour in relative silence, each engrossed in their own work—until a sudden breeze lifted one of Hermione’s Arithmancy equations off of her lap and onto the grass.

Hermione cursed under her breath and began to move the items she’d piled around her so she could stand up and retrieve it. Just as she’d finally gotten to her feet, the quiet voice of Severus Snape spoke a charm she’d learned in her very first year at Hogwarts and levitated the parchment onto the book in front of him.

 _He didn’t have to say anything to trump me that time_ , she thought with disgusted admiration. _Thinking like a Muggle_.

They were at an impasse—Hermione had no intention of attempting to take back her paper in the same manner with which Snape had taken it, doing so would only accentuate his triumph over her. By the same token, Snape clearly had no motivation other than generosity to send it back to her. She couldn’t even sit back down—doing so would acknowledge his win.

“If looks could kill…” Severus observed. “I’d wondered why the Headmaster chose to re-sort you so quickly,” he said in a thoughtful voice, surprising her. “I see now that it was most likely an issue of bloodline.”

“While I see your material point,” Hermione said through gritted teeth, “I fail to grasp your general one?”

“Oh, I sincerely doubt that,” Snape said conversationally. “You’re far too sensitive—it’s not as if I called you a—”

“Don’t,” Hermione stopped him quickly. “It’s a dirty word, and I don’t think either of us need to clarify this to _that_ extent.”

“You know, even if you are _completely_ Muggle-born,” the black-haired boy said to her with interest, “you should still understand the concept of words of power.”

“I thought that was exactly my point,” Hermione said, finally leaning against the tree behind her after growing tired of standing.

“I meant specifically that some words _lose_ their power, if you lose your respect for their meaning.”

This was an extraordinary observation coming from a member of Slytherin House, Hermione thought with no small surprise. It dawned on her that most of the professors at Hogwarts were quite advanced in years, meaning that new ones were few and far between. The addition of Severus Snape to that august minority was starting to make a lot more sense.

“That is…” Hermione paused, not sure she was willing to take a step as big as complimenting her opponent, but her inner sense of fairness told her she must. “That is an extraordinary observation,” she echoed her inner thoughts. Snape seemed to understand immediately what a gift her compliment was, and bowed his head slightly in appreciation.

“I wonder how often you get to express such views, given your usual…company,” Hermione said, unable to dignify her former Housemates with much more than that.

“I expect that your disagreeable experience gives your conclusions more credence.”

“Fancy words for, ‘they treated you like rubbish, I can understand why you don’t like them,'” she said bitterly.

“Remember what we agreed to, about power,” Snape said, almost gently. Before she could become flustered with embarrassment over being lectured by one of her peers, he added, “I think we would also agree that certain members of your acquaintance in Slytherin would behave as badly no matter what house they managed to be sorted to.”

“I’m glad to see that the attitudes could have been home-grown, rather than taught,” she said, managing to keep her tone neutral. Hermione didn’t add that this problem hadn’t seemed to improve after two decades.

“Speaking of agreeing,” Severus said, lifting the Arithmancy notes he’d filched from her, “these two variables do not.”

“Are they supposed to?” Hermione’s voice was filled with mischief, hoping he would see the correlation. He started to answer and then looked back down at the parchment, his brows lifting slightly at whatever he found there.

“Not always,” he finally answered.

“Well, there’s no accounting for taste,” Hermione shrugged.

“Touché,” Snape said, granting her a rare smile as he finally restored her lost parchment to her with a flick of his wand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I waffled a bit about Sirius's tears in the Owlery. The thing is, though, he's _human,_ he's been hurt badly, and he's still a teenager. I don't want to make the mistake of writing these wonderful characters as though they've been at the exact same emotional maturity from their 7th year all the way to the Battle of Hogwarts!


	19. Heightened Senses

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another of my favorite chapters!!!

  
Everything changes  
Everything falls apart  
Can’t stop to feel myself start losing control  
But deep in my senses, I know  
- _Stupid, Sarah Mclachlan_

 

Remus awoke in the late afternoon, finding himself alone in the dormitory. Sirius, he knew, had most likely been up not long after they’d returned to the castle, and it appeared that James and Peter had wanted to let him rest. He hadn’t dreamed, thank Merlin—or if he had, he didn’t recall them—and his memories of the night before were filled with happiness instead of the lonely darkness he experienced at home. He didn’t blame his family, it was just that a tool shed with bars on its windows was in no way comparable to the Forbidden Forest, especially not with the addition of three companions.

He rolled over and tried to think of something else; his transformation always left his senses and emotions at a much higher peak than normal, and right now if he dwelled on what his friends had done for him he’d turn into a sentimental wreck. He recalled Sirius’ behavior the day before—Remus hadn’t seen his friend so edgy in a long time. The strangest part had been Sirius’ scent—during the days before and after the full moon, Lupin’s sense of smell was more akin to a wolf’s than a human’s. He could often catch things like fear or arousal from several yards away, a fact that usually embarrassed him greatly.

The truth was, yesterday during their talk, Remus had caught a strong scent of _jealousy_ , something that intensified when they spoke of Hermia James. His body language also spoke very strongly of possessiveness—yet when he’d come out and asked Sirius if he liked Hermia, Padfoot claimed he wasn’t sure. Remus thought that if his friend’s mind wasn’t convinced, his heart and his body certainly were. He resolved to pay more attention to both of them to see how they reacted to each other. Watching his friend Lily Evans fall for James Potter had been one of the most amusing and engaging experiences of his life, after all. Particularly due to the enmity she’d had for Prongs for much of their school life.

If his friend did fancy Hermia, Remus thought with a chuckle that Sirius’ heart was in grave danger— _she_ was the kind of woman a man spent the rest of his life with.

=====

Snape had long since gone back to the castle when Lily Evans came up to Hermione’s blanket and settled beside her.

“I remember you saying something about watching the Quidditch tryouts?” she asked after their warm greeting, sitting cross-legged beside Hermione and fiddling with one of the quills that lay on the blanket with them. 

“Oh—yes, I would,” Hermione said enthusiastically. She’d been excited at the prospect since the day before—almost everyone who’d been around long enough to know complimented Harry by claiming he reminded them of his father’s flying. 

Lily helped her collect her things, and the two of them made their way to the Quidditch Pitch. Just as they were about to climb up to an observation tower, though, Hermione’s stomach rumbled, reminding her that she’d skipped lunch, and dinner would be over shortly.

“Wow, even I could hear that,” Lily laughed. “Maybe you should nip over to the Great Hall before it gets bad enough that the players can hear it.”

“Good suggestion,” Hermione said, a hand to her protesting stomach. “Besides, Sirius was right—this is fairly heavy to be carrying with me everywhere.” Something occurred to her at the mention of Sirius’ name, and she looked up at the nearby observation towers to see if she could catch sight of him. “Speaking of which—have you seen him around?”

Lily looked at her speculatively before responding. “No, why?”

Hermione had no intention of divulging her real reason, considering it would only give her friend more ammunition to continue their earlier teasing.  
“I just wondered if James succeeded in getting him to show up for the tryouts,” she lied. What she really wanted to know was whether or not he’d taken Remus anything for supper. _Well_ , she thought to herself cheerfully, _I’ve got to put these books away anyway, and their dormitory isn’t far from ours_. She waved to Lily, who was looking at her with narrowed eyes and an expression that told Hermione she would have some questions for her later.

Dinner was comprised of various meats with bread, something quite easy to conceal in a couple of napkins to take with her. Hermione delighted herself immensely when she managed to avoid Malfoy by choosing an obscure path to Gryffindor tower—he’d seen her leaving the Great Hall and begun up the moving staircases to intercept her, but she’d simply melted away into another corridor. She knew she’d have to deal with him sometime, but now that she wasn’t in the same House as he, the menace of his anger at her seemed less of a threat and more of a nuisance.

As Hermione reached the top of the stairs, she almost turned back. She didn’t want to give the kind of impression that the rest of the Marauders had seemed to take from her interest in Remus—but neither did she want him to go hungry. She was just about to walk back down the stairs when something she’d overheard Lupin speaking about with Dumbledore struck her. They’d been in the kitchen of #12, Grimmauld Place, and Remus had stated that the week of his transformation gave him a much stronger sense of smell, among other senses. He had stopped then, asking Hermione (who had barely stopped at the bottom of the stairs to the first floor) to come and join them. That event had turned her into a believer—and as she stood at the door to the boys’ dormitory, she knew that he was probably in there wondering why she was there. She knocked.

“Come in,” Remus said, and she heard a bit of scuffling in the room; perhaps he was putting on a robe or something. When she entered he did not look surprised to see her, confirming her suspicions. “Hello, Hermia—can I help you with something?” His manner of address reminded Hermione of something her grandmother had called a ‘servant’s heart.’ Not _subservient_ , just always willing to help, _expecting_ to help. She found it very interesting that he’d been like this long before becoming a teacher.

“Well, I’m glad to see you didn’t think I came here for anyone else,” she teased. Remus was in bed, but surrounded by papers and books much the same way that she had been earlier that day. She had never seen him after an actual transformation, only a day after he’d taken his Wolfsbane potion—it gave her a great deal of comfort to see that he looked very well, considering the previous night’s ordeal. “How are you feeling?” she asked, setting her bag on a nearby chair and reaching inside to retrieve the food she’d taken from downstairs.

“Quite a bit better, thank you,” came his polite reply.

=====

Remus was incredibly baffled, but did his best not to show it. He’d heard someone coming up the stairs, of course, but had assumed it to be Sirius until he’d caught a whiff of indecision and a person whose scent he did not recognize. It appeared that Hermia James had come to see if he was still unwell, but what really confused him was the sense of strong affection practically wafting from the girl in waves. For _him_ , no less. It was very different from attraction; the kind of caring that came from a long and happy friendship. He recognized it immediately, as it was the undertone of all of his closest friends’ aroma when they were with each other.

Why it was coming from Hermia, and _how_ she’d managed to develop it so early was completely beyond him.

Remus found it impossible not to like her, especially since he could tell with many of his senses that she was very fond of him—not matter how strange that seemed coming from someone he’d not known for very long. Being that today he was incredibly sensitive to body language and other signs, he couldn’t help but smile at the lingering indecision and concern he knew she was feeling. He saw her rummaging in that large book bag she was always carrying, and suddenly he smelled the food and realized why she was there. Nevertheless, he decided not to let her in on his heightened perceptiveness just yet.

“What have you got, there?” he asked, sitting up in bed so that she could see he was fully dressed. He didn’t want to add to her nervousness. Even so, at his question, she seemed to fidget a little and he almost wanted to go over to her, draw her to a chair, and tell her, ‘calm down, and thank you for bringing me dinner.’ Remus had to marvel at how simply sensing the emotions of those around him altered the way he perceived them and how he reacted toward them. _Just a part of nature_ , he thought wryly, _just as I am, for a week every month._

=====

Hermione knew he could probably tell she was nervous by her scent, and that knowledge just made her more nervous as she searched for the right way to tell him she’d brought him dinner. In the end, his encouraging smile and her rumbling stomach made her speak in a rush as though it wouldn’t sound as odd if she said it quickly.

“I remember Sirius saying he usually brought you food when you were si—weren’t feeling well,” she amended, not wanting to give him the impression that his friends let slip how often he was ‘ill.’ “I haven’t seen him today and since I planned to take food to my room anyway,” she hadn’t, of course, but she figured he’d think her mental for wanting to bring him dinner as if she’d been his close friend for years. “I brought you some too—just in case.”

“Thank you,” he said, sounding pleased and not a bit unnerved by her strange gesture. “If you did bring some for yourself, did you want to eat here?” he offered, moving some books off of a chair that sat next to his bed.

“Is that…allowed?” she asked, surprised and delighted by his suggestion. She really did like Remus a lot, and an impromptu dinner made it a lot easier to have a private chat with him, _without_ the innuendo that James and the others found so amusing.

“Yes,” Lupin laughed, “I’m a Prefect—and besides, I doubt even Professor McGonagall would pass out detention for aiding a fellow Housemate in need.”

“Well,” Hermione said, conjuring up a few more napkins, “I hope you like turkey, then!” She handed him an equal portion and settled herself on the chair he’d cleared off for her.

“So tell me,” Remus said between bites, “how is it that you came to Hogwarts so late? If you don’t mind my asking,” he looked slightly apologetic as he spoke the last bit, as though he thought he’d overstepped his bounds.

“It’s all right,” Hermione assured him. “My parents didn’t like the idea of a boarding school, and I guess Professor Dumbledore persuaded them to let me have a tutor, instead.” She went over the rest of the scenario she and the professor had come up with, explaining how her tutor had health difficulties during the last year, and how she’d pointed out to her parents that many of the students at Hogwarts had known each other for many years, which would leave her at a disadvantage once it was time to find employment.

=====

Her explanation was reasonable enough, and if it hadn’t been for the simple coincidence that they were holding the conversation so soon after his transformation, he’d never have questioned it. But she was lying. The sense that he got from her wasn’t of a malicious lie, however. She seemed almost as if she had memorized a prearranged history—though why she thought it necessary to conceal her real one, he didn’t know. What he did know was that as the hours passed his animalistic advantage would continue to fade; already the sounds from the adjoining rooms and floors were fading to the periphery, and when there came a knock at the door, it took him a long moment to catch that it was Sirius.

 _Better and better_ , he said to himself with a hint of mischief— _time to find out what’s going on, here._

“Come in, Sirius,” he said, watching Hermia for her reaction. He wasn’t disappointed—there was an immediate ramping in the tension he sensed from her, as well as a definite happiness when his friend entered the room. He’d expected her to be shocked and impressed at his ability to guess who was at the door, but presumed (wrongly) that she’d assumed the other boy had a recognizable knock. When Black entered, Remus thought to himself that he barely needed an amplified awareness to know Sirius had feelings for Hermia. His friend’s emotions were all jealousy and attraction, with a hint of possessiveness when he looked at the girl sitting to Lupin’s right.

“I’ve brought you—oh, hello Miss James,” Sirius said as he opened the door. Hermia’s body language indicated that she really wanted to stand up and apologize, and in not doing so she gained a great deal of respect from Remus. Instead, she remained in the chair with the hand that was clenched tightly in her lap as the only indication of her tension. She sent Sirius an contrite look, and explained quickly that she’d already planned to eat in the dormitories, and brought extra just in case something had come up to prevent Sirius’ doing so.

The wave of possessiveness that echoed from Sirius at her words made Remus feel very cared for—he was actually disappointed that his self-appointed job had already been taken care of.

“Please join us, Sirius,” Lupin said, hoping his friend would gather from his quick suggestion that he and Hermia were just having a friendly chat.

=====

It had taken all of Hermione’s self control not to leap to her feet and apologize profusely for stepping on Sirius’ toes, as it were. Instead she’d stuffed one hand in her lap and told him ruefully that she’d had no intention of spoiling a tradition, merely taking the chance to get to know a new friend better.

In truth she felt horrible; Sirius and Remus’ friendship was something that would transcend all of the terrible events to come and she had had no intention of trying to insinuate herself into that bond. She also felt a little guilty, as though perhaps the jokes from earlier were given credence by her presence in Remus’ bedroom. For some reason, she _really_ didn’t want Sirius to think that she’d come here because she fancied his friend. 

Remus’ suggestion that Sirius join them for their ‘picnic’ dinner was exactly the right way to break the odd tension that had followed his appearance in the dorm room, but Hermione stopped herself from giving her future professor the bright smile she’d almost bestowed, worrying that Sirius would get the wrong idea.

_Wait, this is silly_ , she told herself. _Why should I worry if he thinks I like Remus?_ Then she thought about the way her heart had beat faster when their eyes met, and how his arm had felt under her hand… _That is simply absurd_ , she declared to herself. _This is SIRIUS!_ She didn’t even notice her inadvertent pun, too disgusted with herself for her strange reactions.

Hermione realized that Sirius had settled himself at the foot of Remus’ bed and the two boys were now looking at her expectantly.

“I’m sorry,” she said, flushing scarlet. “I was distracted—what did you ask?” Mercifully they didn’t seem to want to postulate on what she could have been distracted by.

“We were just wondering how long until James sends Lily up here to collect Sirius for Quidditch tryouts,” Remus said with an impish grin.

“ _We_ were not wondering anything of the sort,” protested Sirius with a frustrated groan. Hermione had stopped listening again—she’d completely forgotten that she’d promised Lily to come right back and sit with her to watch the tryouts!

“Oh, _Merlin_ ,” she groaned, interrupting the boys’ banter. “I completely forgot Lily!” To their astonishment, she jumped to her feet, cast a quick ‘ _Scourgify_!’ to clean up from her dinner, and began to leave the room.

“What, no dessert?” Sirius joked, removing his wand from a pocket and making as if he were about to conjure something.

“Run! Run while you still can!” Remus cried, howling with laughter.

“I’m really sorry,” she said, giggling at their antics. “I promised her I’d watch the tryouts—and that was over an hour ago.”

“Go on,” Sirius said, brandishing his wand at Remus as he spoke to her. “Don’t worry though—she might be so busy watching James—”

“Oh!” Hermione protested, sure she knew where he was going with this. “Lily doesn’t seem like the type to disregard everything for her boyf—”

“—So busy that she won’t hex you for being late,” Sirius finished, simulating a severe look with raised eyebrows.

“Right,” Hermione asserted, feeling a complete idiot.

“She’s fairly good at Charms though, so I wouldn’t push it,” Remus added.

Hermione fled.

=====

“You fancy her,” Remus stated without preamble, when her footsteps faded from the stairs outside.

“Bloody werewolf,” Sirius said disgustedly.


	20. Once You Go Gryffindor

  
Fill your lives with love and bravery  
And you shall live the life uncommon  
- _Life Uncommon, Jewel_

 

“Do you deny it?” Lupin asked, amused at Sirius’ grumpy reaction. His friend knew that it was futile to try to keep secrets from him during the week of the full moon, and his reaction had been a common one over the course of their years at school. Sirius stood up and walked over to his own trunk, fiddling with the contents as though he hadn’t heard Remus press him for an answer. Lupin continued to stare at him, and finally he cleared his throat to let the other boy know that he wasn’t going to drop the matter.

“All right,” Sirius conceded, shutting his trunk and turning to face Remus with crossed arms. “Are you happy now?” he asked, sounding slightly petulant.

“Ecstatic.”

“I’m not going to ‘stand aside’ for you either, or any of that rubbish,” Sirius told him bluntly. His statement wasn’t as surprising as it would have been, as Remus could tell how he felt from many clues, not the least of which was the growing sense of possessiveness toward the girl. Nonetheless, that he felt strongly enough to declare something like that—for all intents and purposes staking his claim—Remus was impressed. Then again, Padfoot had always been the type to go out and get what he wanted—and he was as stubborn as a barrel of rocks.

“You’re really serious about that,” he observed lightly.

“Yes, I am.” 

Black sat up proudly, as though the very contrast from his usual easygoing posture would lend credit to his purpose. The sense that Lupin was getting from him would best be described as apologetic anger.

“You don’t actually think—” he started incredulously, stopping when he realized exactly what his friend thought. “Sirius, the strongest emotion I feel toward Hermia James is that of _friendship_ ,” he explained, knowing that to ridicule his friend at this point wouldn’t do any good toward convincing him of his disinterest.

“You don’t have to say that,” Sirius protested, deflating slightly. “If you really—”

“Oh, will you please stop with that nonsense and come back over here,” Remus said in exasperation. The warrior’s stance Sirius was adopting in the corner of the room was as ridiculous as it was unnecessary. For a long moment Sirius looked as if he were going to get angry, but then he smiled sheepishly and walked back over to Remus’ four-poster.

“Can you teach me how to insult with adoration, Moony?” he asked, deadpan.

“Of course, you dear overgrown mutt.”

=====

When Hermione got to the Quidditch Pitch, she saw with relief that the tryouts were still underway. The stands and the field were both colored in patches by gold and crimson from both players and onlookers, and it took a fair bit of time to locate Lily’s location from the ground. As she climbed the tower to reach the bleachers, Hermione recognized a few of the students flying past. She saw James, of course—he’d conjured up a rather odd looking aura for himself, no doubt to make it easier to be recognized as he shouted orders to his potential teammates. Fiona McCready was unmistakable in Gryffindor robes and a scarf from the Irish National Quidditch Team, her thick curls flying about her face in a reddish gold nimbus.

After she’d reached the top, Hermione saw that the students on the field were a lot more organized than it appeared from the ground. A group of three or four were at the far goal with a Quaffle, taking turns shooting and passing, while the nearest goal appeared to be the host of Keeper tryouts. This particular tower was fairly empty, as most of the observers were clumped around the ‘home’ goal rings. She was able to walk right up to her friend and sit down, feeling slightly embarrassed as she did so—the other girl had conjured a comfortable pillow for her to sit on. Hermione wondered how long it had sat there unused.

“That must have been _some_ dinner,” Lily observed the moment she caught sight of her.

“I am _so_ sorry,” Hermione fretted. “The time got away from me and—”

“Just tell me who you were off snogging with and we’ll call it even,” her friend offered as a compromise. Hermione would have laughed if she weren’t so sensitive from the jokes about herself and Remus earlier that day.

“I wasn’t ‘off snogging’ anyone!” she protested hotly.

“That would be much easier to believe if you weren’t busy trying to reinvent the word ‘fuchsia,’” Lily’s hand reached up as if to pinch Hermione’s cheeks, which were indeed a rather bright shade of pink. The trouble was that she _had_ felt a little flutter of excitement when Sirius had shown up during dinner, but there wasn’t really any way to explain why it didn’t mean anything to Lily. After all, saying ‘I’m just anxious around him because I cared a great deal for him as an adult, and I am really upset about his death’ would not go over well at all.

She wished she could tell Harry how well Sirius looked, how lively and full of hope and mischief he was. His grey eyes danced with merriment and his voice held none of the self-derision that had shown up so much in the last year of his life. His body wasn’t gaunt and wasted, but muscular and lithe, his hands strong and yet very gentle as he’d touched her— _wait_. Hermione stopped herself. _Why would Harry care about Sirius’ hands?! You’ve gone batty, Hermione_.

“Tell me it wasn’t a boy that made you space out like that,” Lily interrupted her silent reflections with a snap of her fingers in front of Hermione’s face. Then she made a face and apologized, saying, “I don’t mean to be pushy, I’m just—” she blushed, tossing a look over her shoulder at the players on the field. “Happy. And I’d love to think that the people around me could be happy too.”

“I’m glad you’re happy, Lily,” Hermione said, a little of the blush fading as she focused on something other than putting her foot in her mouth. “I’d love to tell you it was something special I was thinking about, but I was just reminiscing about people I knew back home.”

Hermione thought that little half-truth was quite brilliant, really.

“So, how are the tryouts going?” she deflected neatly.

“Very well—McCready and Johnson were the Beaters last year, and they’re just as good today, James says,” Lily spoke in an excited tone, waving at her boyfriend as he swooshed past. “Looks like they’re just finishing up the Keeper tryouts now,” she observed.

“I _like_ Fiona,” Hermione declared. “She came right out and told me she wouldn’t hold it against me for being in Slytherin.”

“That sounds like her,” the redhead agreed. “Just keep her away from the Firewhiskey.”

“What?” Hermione laughed. “Where would you even _get_ any—” Lily just looked at her, eyes twinkling, and she realized exactly who had created the Marauders’ Map—not that she could admit that she knew about it, of course.

Just as Hermione had decided to pretend ignorance and put Lily on the spot, the only other student on their observation tower stood up and muttered ‘trouble,’ leaning over the railing to look at the ground below. The girls both scurried to the edge to see what was going on.

Many of the hovering Gryffindors had landed and were forming a group in the middle of the field, facing a knot of roughly two dozen Slytherin students carrying broomsticks. One of them was Eunae Zabini. Hermione wasn’t surprised to see she played Quidditch—she seemed exactly the type of personality that Slytherin usually fielded as a Beater. 

When James saw what was happening below him, he cancelled the spell he’d cast on himself and started down to see what the matter was. It appeared to be a heated argument, but too far away for the voices to carry as far as the elevated bleachers. Hermione saw quite a few of the other spectators begin to hurry down the stairs, but though she knew her friend wanted to know exactly what their rival House was attempting to do, Lily stayed put.

“I told James I wouldn’t ask him not to hate the Slytherins,” she explained, turning her back on the unfolding drama on the field and leaning against the railing. “But I wouldn’t let him act on it. Even so,” she sighed, “I don’t want him to think I’d start a row over something someone _else_ did to him—he can take care of himself, he always does.” Hermione impulsively reached out and gave her friend a hug; Lily looked miserable.

“You don’t want to go down there and look like you’re marching over to nag him for fighting,” she interpreted sympathetically. “What we really could use here are some Extendable Ears,” Hermione mused.

“What?” Lily asked in an amused tone, the strange statement seeming to cheer her up slightly.

“Never mind.” 

Hermione risked a look over her shoulder and saw with no small surprise that James was signaling the Gryffindors to head out, the Slytherin team already in the air and flying. “Looks like it’s over,” she said to her friend.

“Well, that’s unexpected,” the other girl said with impressive understatement. They hurried down to intercept James, who had a huge grin on his face.

“What is this, the _Twilight Zone_?” Hermione asked in bewilderment. Lily laughed, James did not.

“Hurry,” he said, looking over his shoulder and nearly doubling over in laughter.

“James Potter,” his girlfriend said severely, “what in _Merlin’s_ name did you do?!”

“I’ll tell you, I promise, just _keep walking_ ,” James choked out, fairly dragging the two of them into the castle where he finally collapsed on the stone floor and practically shook the walls with the force of his mirth.

“I switched them,” he finally managed, tears forming at the corners of his eyes. “The Quidditch balls…”

“What do you mean?” Hermione asked, completely at a loss.

“Their personalities,” Potter said, holding his stomach as though it hurt.

“Oh, lord,” Lily said, sitting down beside him and starting to chuckle.

“You don’t mean, like ‘Quaffle to Bludger’ and—” Hermione had her answer when James laid his head on Lily’s shoulder and started shaking again. “I wondered why you gave up so easily,” she said, not quite finding it as amusing as he did, but appreciating the prank nonetheless.

“They’re going to know it was you,” his girlfriend pointed out.

“Let them,” he shrugged. “They should have known better than to think I’d just leave when they asked me to.”

=====

The fallout from the Quidditch prank was felt the next day by fully half of the Gryffindors, who spent their Sunday mealtimes with bowls, plates, and cups that randomly rejected their contents. Most of them tolerated the bewitched dishes with equanimity when they saw the number of students in Slytherin with bruises and limps. The revenge actually backfired, as James and Fiona especially considered each incident as a baptism that proved their superiority.  
Hermione and Lily chose to eat their meals outside that day.

Unfortunately, Lucius Malfoy seemed to have taken Hermione’s friendship with the instigator of the previous day’s plot as a personal insult, as though as a former Slytherin she should have prevented such an event. He glared at her during Charms so much that Professor Flitwick had come over to see what Hermione was doing at her table that should garner so much attention—and promptly awarded Gryffindor five House points for her masterful performance of an indexing charm she was using while searching for information on the subject they were studying that day.

Hermione sincerely hoped that the professor hadn’t done this solely to vex the student he was forced to take into class, as she would be the one to feel the effects of it.

Transfiguration went splendidly—right up until the moment that Professor McGonagall caught Sirius and James snickering at the back of the classroom just after she’d demonstrated something about her own animagus transformation. Hermione know that the professor was quite sensitive about her gift, and so she wasn’t surprised at all when the two boys earned themselves a detention for later that night. James assuaged their collective curiosity at lunch when Peter asked what they’d gotten in trouble for.

“It was _classic_ ,” the black-haired boy boasted. “McGonagall had just finished morphing out of her cat form when Sirius whispered to me how amusing it would have been to have a dog bark at her to see her reaction.” Everyone at the table roared with laughter, but Hermione had to restrain herself slightly, knowing that she wasn’t supposed to be in on the bigger part of the joke—the fact that Sirius could very well have performed his own suggestion. Even though she was quite fond of their prim Head of House, she had to admit the thought was awfully funny.

“I wonder how many House points _that_ would have lost us,” Sirius said, his broad grin causing a few of the Ravenclaw girls across from him to giggle and wave. He winked at them, and Hermione found their tittering response to be terribly vapid. She turned back to her food to see Remus Lupin giving her an odd smile, which she hesitatingly returned.

The whole group of them left the Great Hall together, laughing and talking as they started down a long corridor—only to find Lucius Malfoy blocking their path with a couple of burly looking sidekicks in silver and green at his side.

“Was there something?” Lily said coolly, making as if she were simply going to push her way through them.

“Might want to call off your little wifey,” Lucius said nastily to James. “Wouldn’t want her to get hurt, after all.”

“You wouldn’t have the—” Sirius was interrupted by Remus, who stepped forward with purpose and laid a gentle hand on his friend’s shoulder.

“Move along, Mr. Malfoy,” he said, giving the other boy a sign of respect as incentive to listen. “I’m a Prefect, and I’d hate to have to bring a small matter like this up to our Heads of House.” It was a very tactful message, but Malfoy would have none of it.

“He’s a Prefect, too,” the blonde boy sneered, jutting a thumb in the direction of the boy Hermione knew to be Francis Wilkes. “My issue isn’t with you, anyway—it’s with our little expatriate, there.”

“You don’t even know what that means,” scoffed James. Even so, he and Sirius stepped a little closer to each other, with Hermione behind them. She didn’t want anyone to fight her battles for her however, and she pushed her way past them to stand next to Remus. As she did so, she felt Sirius reach down and squeeze her hand quickly in support, something that sent a frisson of excitement through her entire body.

Right then, Hermione felt as if she could fight a lion with her bare hands.

“I’m sorry, you can’t borrow my Charms notes, Malfoy,” she said with a disdainful look. The icy anger of her opponent turned immediately to fury, just as she’d known it would. He was a fool, she decided—hot anger made for stupid mistakes.

“You think you’ve found a home among these imbecilic hotheads,” he snapped. “Leaving Slytherin was a mistake you’ll regret, I’m sure—but if you continue to try to sabotage my classes—”

“ _You_ are the only one doing that,” she interrupted, beginning to get angry at his thickheaded behavior. “I know what you did—bewitching the Sorting Hat—and furthermore, so does Dumbledore.” She saw the boy in front of her turn slightly pale and open his mouth as if to protest his innocence. She went on before he could come up with a fresh lie. “You’re right, I should have stayed in Slytherin,” she said, shocking her audience. “Just so I could be the first _Muggle-born_ to defile you self-righteous lot of pureblood fanatics with my presence!” Almost everyone gasped, but Lucius’ eyes bulged with shock and fury, his hands nearly white from the pressure of holding them in fists. She continued, goading him. “Didn’t think of _that_ , did you—come to think of it, what _were_ you thinking?”

She didn’t expect him to answer, but the question had been plaguing her ever since Peter had confirmed the fact that Malfoy had been behind the whole sorting debacle. To her surprise, he answered.

“I just…” he said, his voice raspy as though he’d forgotten how to use it in the face of her extraordinary declaration. As he cleared it, though, his eyes took on a very haughty look, and he backed away from her slightly. “I just thought it would stir things up, bring in some new blood—not a _mudblood_ ,” his voice took on more and more confidence as he spoke, the tone becoming increasingly condescending until he finished his insult with triumph, as if she would be completely beaten down by the prudish sentiment.

“Say that again and I’ll—” Sirius began from behind her, and she could actually feel the force of wind from James’ attempt to hold him back. Potter managed to stop him just at her back, close enough that she could feel his breathing. 

Hermione thought about the first time she’d heard the word ‘mudblood’—from this man’s own son. It had the power to hurt her then, but not now. Strange how the conversation she’d held with Snape turned out to be so relevant; how she’d stopped her future professor from speaking it but allowed her enemy to do so without so much as a whisper of dismay.

It had no power over her anymore.

“You’re just _stupid_ enough to think that’s an insult, Malfoy,” she said, reaching behind her to seek Sirius’ hand in an echo of his earlier attempt to fortify her. The contact brought back the heady thrill she’d felt earlier, and she began to realize that their touch brought with it much more than the simple support and encouragement that she’d intended. The rushing heartbeat was from the confrontation, though, she was sure of that… 

Lucius was still glaring at her, his two goons doing the same beside him as though waiting for the order to rush the group.

“Did you ever think that calling her that only insults _you_ when she turns out to better at something than you are?” Lily called out from beside Remus and Peter.

“Just walk away, before you put your foot in it,” suggested James.

“Once you go Gryffindor, you never go back,” Hermione taunted in a sweet tone of voice, shivering delightedly as the breath from Sirius’ laughter tickled the hairs at the back of her neck.


	21. Crushes and Porcupines

  
Are you lost or incomplete?  
Do you feel like a puzzle, you can’t find your missing piece?  
Tell me how do you feel?  
Well I feel like they’re talking in a language I don’t speak  
And they’re talking it to me  
- _Talk, Coldplay_

 

Hope was a grand thing, Sirius decided. So was the exciting feeling that the person you fancied might just think you’re fanciable in return. What had him the most impressed was the brilliant manner with which Hermia had dealt with that git Malfoy. He was pretty sure that even without Dumbledore’s sudden appearance (“Ah, Mr. Malfoy—just the person I was hoping to see. Would you come with me, please?” The Headmaster hadn’t even batted an eye at the rest of them, as though their little spat in the hallway had never even happened), she could have bruised the snobby little creature into the stones of the hallway floor with mere words. Considering her talents with a wand as well as her vocabulary, Miss Hermia James was a force to be reckoned with.

He’d always enjoyed a challenge.

“You’re lucky we don’t have class this afternoon,” James observed as they sat outside on the grass. “You’d end up with detention all week for inattention.”

“I’m paying attention!” Sirius lied, shooting a wounded look at his friend.

“What did I just say, then?” the other boy challenged.

“Something about Quidditch,” Sirius said, playing a hunch.

“Lucky guess,” mumbled Potter.

“It was, rather.”

“Anyway, I was saying that we have the team more or less in place, with the exception of a Keeper…” James trailed off, looking at him steadily.

“I knew there was a reason I wasn’t listening,” Sirius groaned. “Look, just because I’m a fair flyer doesn’t mean that I’m good enough for your ‘dream team.’”

“Aww, Padfoot—you’ll always be on _my_ dream team,” James cooed.

“Remus is way better at the insult part of that than you are,” Sirius remarked cryptically. At his friend’s puzzled look, he simply said, “Never mind.”

“Well, if you insist on depriving me of your Keeping abilities, do you at least have a suggestion? Some untapped gold mine of a player just waiting for my encouragement to lead us to unparalleled victory?” James had stretched out fully on his back, a position Sirius knew lent itself very well to long-windedness. He decided to head this off early.

“What about Steffie?” he asked, pulling the suggestion from nowhere but beginning to see the merits after he did so.

“Really? I’ve never seen her as someone interested in Quidditch,” James said, lifting his head in interest.

“She’s never missed a match,” Sirius offered.

“And of course you’d be the one to know,” his friend teased. “But—can she fly?”

“You’ve never seen her?” Sirius leaned forward to emphasize his coming statement. “She’s fantastic! We went out late one night with a Quaffle, Sixth Year—I think I only managed to score once—” James had sat up towards the end of this, waving his hands in the air as if calling off a landing.

“All right, I get the point, enough,” he said, laughing heartily as Sirius winked at him. “I’ll look into that.”

“You should,” Black asserted, leaning back against his arms and gaining a speculative look. “If Hermia James could fly like that on top of her talents in magic and verbal lashing, I would be in real trouble.”

“I wondered when that would come up,” James said lightly.

“Did you, now,” Sirius asked serenely, trying to ignore his slight flush at his friend’s unsurprised response. Potter nudged him with his foot, as if to let him know he didn’t miss the embarrassed reaction.

“I think you’re already in trouble.” He stood, the afternoon sun causing his shadow to loom over Sirius, complete with unkempt hair and glasses. “You can always _teach_ her to fly.”

=====

After James had left, Sirius reflected on the change in himself he’d felt over the past week. Usually at this time, he’d have been homing in on someone he planned to chat up—though he supposed that was still what he was doing. It felt different though. Hermia didn’t seem like the kind of girl to talk to simply on the off chance that she’d like to take a trip to the Astronomy Tower. Not that he wouldn’t have wanted to, of course he did—but there was more to her. _There was more to Steffie Kirke, too_ , he told himself. _So why is this one so different?_

He felt slightly ashamed of himself—there was a name for boys who were only interested in one thing from a girl, and not a very nice one, either. He was mature enough to realize that desires like that were part of being a teenager, and he found himself wondering very seriously if his change of heart had to do with the happiness he saw in James.

James would marry Lily. He could see it in his friend’s face—he’d found what he was looking for, and the devil of it was that he’d known for years. Sirius couldn’t even count the number of times he’d told Prongs to give up on the prickly Miss Evans, assuming that the vivacious redhead just didn’t have the sense to give James an honest look. He was glad she had—and not just for James’ sake. Lily Evans was a very strong-willed, intelligent witch with just enough of a sense of mischief to kept them all guessing. 

Sirius thought about his cousins, Narcissa and Bellatrix. A stronger contrast couldn’t be made between Lily and Hermia and the two Black sisters. He wondered what it was about being from a long pureblooded family that seemed to turn the women into such shrewish snobs. If there was any subject about which Walburga Black had a lot to say, it was bloodlines. Suddenly, something Hermia had said to Malfoy popped back into his mind, and Sirius started to smile slowly.

Hermia had referred to herself as a Muggle-born, and he thought he knew her character well enough to be sure she wouldn’t lie about something like that. On the contrary, she seemed quite proud of it, especially when it came to the reactions of people like Lucius who considered ‘dirty’ blood to be a sign of inferiority. Even if he hadn’t fancied her, Sirius would have had a lot of trouble imagining Hermia as inferior to someone like Malfoy. Someone as amazingly talented as she appeared to be would still be considered dirt beneath his mother’s feet. The smile turned to a grin.

His mother would _hate_ the idea of Sirius dating someone like Hermia, especially after his cousin Bella had recently announced her engagement to Rodolphus Lestrange; the Lestrange family being another long line of pureblooded wizards dating back three hundred years or more. He laughed, realizing that his elitist mother would even hate her _name_ , coming as it did from a Muggle playwright, William Shakespeare.

Sirius thought about the way she’d reached for his hand in the hallway. Not only had her touch felt electrifying, but she’d understood _why_ he’d made the same gesture a few minutes before hers, without any verbal clarification. Her analytical mind appealed to him because he disliked having to explain things to people whose perceptions didn’t move as fast as his thought processes. Life was a fast-paced adventure to Sirius; if you were left behind, it was just too bad. 

He guessed that meant he really _did_ like bookish females.

=====

Hermione ended up missing dinner that evening, mostly due to the fact that she had offered to drop off some books for Professor Vector in the library—and then once she was there, she wanted to look up one thing she’d been meaning to research, which had led to three other volumes that cross-referenced to another five…until it was eight in the evening and beginning to go dark. She replaced all of the books herself save one, that she checked out to take to the common room with her.

When she got to the Gryffindor tower, however, the only member of their cadre of friends there was Peter. His greeting smile was friendly, and Hermione realized what it was that seemed so different—his smiles reached his eyes. She took that as a good sign; perhaps he hadn’t started down his destructive path yet.

“Were you enjoying the solitude? I can just as easily read this upstairs,” she offered, feeling more than a little guilty for attempting to ‘cop out’ of spending time with him.

“Actually,” Pettigrew started to say, his neck taking on a slightly red color as though he were embarrassed, “I’ve been meaning to ask you about Transfiguration today—when we were turning an armchair into an armoire;” she nodded, understanding now why he was so pleased to see her. The nature of his friendship with the others included the assumption that an animagus would excel at all transfiguration; he would have felt a fool if he had asked any of them for help.

“Mine insisted on retaining the upholstery!” Peter was saying, scratching his head in frustration. “I can’t figure out what I was doing wrong.”

Hermione sat down next to him, finding as she did so that the type of reaction she’d expected to have—repulsion, anxiety, apprehension—hadn’t come. In fact his distress seemed to make him a lot more human. _Oh, please, Hermione—even –Hitler- was human—and what a horrible thing to think!_ She shook her head at her inner thoughts and focused on helping Peter.

“Well, as you know, a large part of Transfiguration is visualization,” she said, risking the phrasing in order to acknowledge even in a small way the achievement she wasn’t meant to know about. “If you look at the chair and think to yourself, ‘I really hope my wardrobe doesn’t turn up with a chintz flower pattern,’ chances are that it will.”

“You really think it could have been as simple as that?” Peter asked hopefully, smiling a little at the way she’d described it.

“Yes actually, it’s often the little things that trip us up in spellcasting,” she said with a little shrug. “Not to belittle your problem, of course—while it’s a fair achievement to be in Professor McGonagall’s Seventh Year Transfiguration class,” Peter blushed as she spoke, “it doesn’t preclude a little nervousness here and there.”

“Thank you,” the boy next to her said, his voice gaining a little more confidence.

“Hey, if we all knew how to do these things already, we wouldn’t need the class, right?” Hermione pointed out, suddenly wondering what Peter had done in the first timeline. Had he spoken to Lily about this? Buckled down and talked to Remus, perhaps? Worse, had he mentioned his concerns to James or Sirius and been told he should have no problem with the class? Much as she respected all of her friends here in 1977, she knew that their friendship with each other was based in no small part on friendly ribbing—and she didn’t quite trust that James or Sirius would grasp the difference between a genuine problem and a chance to poke fun. It was only a confidence issue, after all…

Hermione found herself almost hoping that the previous Pettigrew _had_ brought his issue up and been ridiculed—because that would mean she’d just made a change for the better.

“Quiet night,” observed Remus Lupin as he stepped through the portrait hole.

“Hello, Remus,” Hermione said, careful not to show too much pleasure in seeing him, lest Peter think she was glad not to be alone with him anymore.

“What are you working on?” Lupin asked as she got up from her position beside Peter and settling back in her small armchair, giving the latter a slight smile as she did so.

“Oh, torturing people with Arithmancy equations,” she lied, knowing Pettigrew wouldn’t thank her for bringing up the Transfiguration question, even if she wouldn’t have any rational explanation for knowing that. “Peter chose the hidden _second_ option of ‘you and whoever came up with those variables are barking mad,’ however, so I gave up.”

“Good on you, Peter,” Remus said, settling himself on the floor with his History of Magic text. Peter just grinned, mouthing a ‘thank you’ to her when the other boy had his back turned pulling his notes from a small book bag. 

“Sirius and James report to detention already, then?” Peter asked Remus.

“Yes—I think she was secretly glad it was them, as well,” came the response. Hermione cocked her head to the side in confusion, but Pettigrew just laughed. “James and Sirius both are quite good at Transfiguration,” Remus explained, confirming her earlier suspicions. “When Professor McGonagall can get her hands on some helpers like that, she gets to turn in early.” She thought she knew what he meant by that.

“Right—someone’s got to turn all of those pincushions back into porcupines,” she postulated, earning herself a glowing smile from Lupin.

“Exactly,” he said, mercifully missing the fact that as a transfer student she wouldn’t have known about that lesson. “In fact, I believe that is precisely what they’re doing tonight.”

“They’ll be wearing gloves, of course,” she stated firmly.

“That would hardly be much of a detention if they were allowed gloves,” Remus said with raised eyebrows.

“Luckily there’s _Contego Manus_ ,” Hermione said in a hopeful voice, speaking of the Glove Charm she’d found in the advanced section of her Charms textbook. She looked up from her notes to see the two of them looking at her blankly.

“The what?” Peter asked.

“The Glove Charm— _honestly_ ,” she said in exasperation, “doesn’t anyone else read the whole textbook?” She might have been speaking to Harry and Ron, both of whom had given her identical blank looks many times in similar situations.

“I don’t think either of them will have heard of it either,” Remus noted.

“I wonder if I could sneak down there and tell them…” Hermione speculated thoughtfully. Pettigrew and Lupin traded looks.

“It’s only a detention,” Peter started to say. Hermione shivered.

“I have a horror of sharp objects,” she explained, rubbing her arms as though she felt a sudden chill.

“Ah,” Remus nodded with sympathy. “Be glad you weren’t there for that class, then.”

“Right.” Hermione said it briskly, trying not to remember how her fingers had still retained the ghostly prickling feeling until late in the day after that lesson in Fourth Year. She didn’t catch Remus’ odd look, busy thinking of how she could manage to tell the two Marauders in detention about the Glove Charm. Finally she simply stood up and began to put her things away.

“You’re not really going down there,” Remus said incredulously.

“I’ll be careful,” she promised, knowing she couldn’t explain that she probably knew the castle almost as well as they did.

“You’ll be caught,” he said, frowning. Hermione grinned at him, warmed by his concern to the point where she found it quite endearing.

“You should lend it to her,” Peter said abstrusely.

“James would skin me alive!” Remus shook his head.

“Not if the _Contego Manus_ works on the entire body,” his friend suggested with a wink.

“It doesn’t,” Hermione cut in. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, but unless it renders me invisible,” she said, deciding to be mischievous, “I’ll just have to take that chance. I’m going.” She wondered if she’d gone too far when she snuck a look at her two companions and found Peter gaping at her and Remus regarding her with narrowed eyes.

Hermione decided the obtuse approach usually worked when people didn’t know how much you knew about their secrets.

“What?” she asked slowly as she tucked her belongings behind the armchair. “What did I say?”

“Let’s just say you’ve come very close to the truth,” Lupin said in a low voice, scooting himself closer to herself and Peter. Hermione chose to look baffled.

“Which part?”

“The part about not getting caught,” Peter said carefully.

“You know a secret way to the Transfiguration classroom?” Hermione said, schooling her features to that of complete confusion, while inside she was laughing hysterically.

“We know how to make you invisible,” stated Remus.

Hermione knew that it would probably be pushing it a little _too_ far to ask where in her Charms textbook he’d gotten a spell like that, but she was sorely tempted to try it anyway.

“Really?” she said, injecting as much amazement into her voice as she thought was appropriate without sounding cheesy.

“Come on,” Lupin said in reply, standing and gesturing to the stairs leading to their dormitory. The common room was relatively empty, so no one noticed when the three of them mounted the stairs and disappeared into the next room.

=====

“Remind me again, _why_ do I like Transfiguration?” Sirius sat on a tall stool overlooking a table full of pincushions in various states of being, including one that was running in circles chasing after its own tail. His hands were already fairly sore, even after a mere half hour at work. He’d never really thought about this aspect of the lesson when he and the others had been learning how to do Switching Spells in class three years ago.

“Because you like to run,” James replied, wincing as he reached for his next victim without looking.

“You’re right.” Sirius had to smile at the response, which would have sounded mysterious to anyone but their core group of friends. “Do you—ouch!—recall our class botching quite as many of these things?” he asked, gesturing to the nearly one hundred squirming prickly things on the tables in front of them.

“No, but I’d say our class was peculiarly gifted,” Potter pointed out with a conspiratorial wink.

“I just don’t understand why she doesn’t choose to store them as pincushions!” Professor McGonagall probably chose this particular combination just for opportune moments like these, Sirius decided silently. Just then the door behind the two boys creaked open slowly, and Black groaned inwardly, wondering what his Head of House would choose to inflict on him for questioning her teaching practices.

When he turned around, however, there was no one there.

“Peeves!” James called out, scanning the ceiling for the pesky poltergeist.

“It’s not Peeves,” hissed a disembodied voice. “Keep your voice down, please!”

Sirius wondered for a split second if perhaps the porcupines used for the Transfiguration lessons had psychedelic spines—because he could have sworn he recognized the whispering voice as Hermia. James had never told him that liking someone so much caused you to hallucinate her appearance…

“Hermia?” James asked, shooting his friend’s theory straight out of the water and making him feel rather foolish to boot.

“Yes,” came the whispered voice. “Remus lent me…something…because I wanted to come help you—but I don’t want to get caught, so just hold your hands out, please.”

“What?” Sirius was confused. Without warning he felt fabric brushing his arm and his hands were gently but firmly positioned in front of him with the palms up. Before his mind could register the fact that he very much liked it when she adopted a take-charge attitude, he heard her soft voice murmur a spell. Immediately his hands felt slightly strange, and when he made a fist with one of them, his sense of touch was slightly dulled.

He was very gratified when she squeezed his arm slightly before moving on to do the same charm on James. He was about to ask her where she’d learned whatever it was when the adjoining door to Professor McGonagall’s office made a noise. He made a shoo-ing gesture and moved off to a corner of the room to collect one of the pincushions that had made a break for it, hearing the classroom door shutting not long afterward.

“That was awfully nice of her,” James said, demonstrating the strength of her charm by pressing a live porcupine onto one hand with another without any sign of pain.

“Yes, it really was,” Sirius replied nonchalantly, his heart beating at a rapid pace at the thought of what she’d risked to come down there and help them. His pretended indifference to her short presence in the room was shattered when he moved to sit down—and promptly fell to the floor when his stool wasn’t where he’d thought it was.

“You’ve got it bad,” James said with a hearty laugh.


	22. Realization

How stupid could I be?  
A simpleton could see  
That you’re no good for me—  
But you’re the only one I see-   
_ Stupid, Sarah Mclachlan _

 

Lily was sitting on her bed when Hermione returned after giving the Invisibility Cloak back to Remus. At first she thought her friend might be there to reprimand her for going out after hours, but she knew Lily well enough to know that if she were going to chastise anyone, she’d come right out and do it. Instead, the other girl began chatting about inconsequential events over the past week which, though enjoyable, simply made Hermione suspicious that there was something going on.

“Ok, Lils—out with it,” she finally demanded, congratulating herself on her own perceptiveness when Lily stammered and flushed pink.

“Oh, I’m not very good at this,” she said, dropping back so that she lay across the narrow part of the bed. Hermione did the same, but lay on her side facing her friend.

“Are you breaking up with me?” she asked in a falsely tearful voice.

“Yes!” Lily declared melodramatically. “I think we should see other people!”

“Psst, Lily—you forgot the part where you say, ‘it’s not you, it’s me,’ Hermione said with a giggle.

“No, it’s  _ definitely _ you,” came the mock-serious reply.

“Can I help it if I’m not James?” Hermione whined petulantly.

“There are plenty of other fish in the sea!” Lily continued the parade of clichés.

“If I can’t have you, no one can!” 

Grabbing a pillow, Hermione climbed onto the other girl and pretended to smother her.

“Ye should pull tha bedcurtains if ye don’ want ta provide blackmail material,” observed Fiona, who walked through the room wearing a towel. Lily took advantage of Hermione’s moment of inattention to begin to tickle her, just as Miss McCready threatened to go searching for her camera.

“You take a (hic!) picture and I’ll hex that (hic!) towel right off of you!” Hermione said vehemently, the threat slightly diminished by her hiccups.

“Ye’d like that too much,” the Irishwoman teased, leaving the room in the direction of the showers.

“See? Plenty of fish in the sea,” Lily said again, sparking a fresh round of giggles.

“Oh, it (hic!) hurts!” Hermione cried, flopping over on her stomach and covering her head with a pillow.

“Well, a good Muggle remedy would be for me to tell you I know someone who fancies you,” Lily said casually. It worked—Hermione turned over and looked at her with wide eyes, her hiccups completely gone.

“You’re kidding!” she said.

“I didn’t think that would work—I thought sure you knew already!” the other girl said in surprise. Hermione just stared at her.

“Who—oh, I can’t do this!” she said in frustration, her emotions a mixture of intense curiosity and dislike for the whole concept of girlish confidences. “I’m dying to know but the idea of asking you just brings to mind slumber parties and giggling about boys and all of those things that other girls always made fun of me for not doing,” she said with a note of disgust in her voice. "I always hated that I wasn't a 'real' girl if I didn't like all of that nonsense." Lily reached over and gave her a quick hug.

“I know  _ exactly _ what you mean—you’ve got to be the first close friend I’ve ever had that’s female,” she said seriously. Hermione’s eyes prickled with tears up for a short minute, too overcome to do more than gesture to Lily and nod, meaning ‘me, too.’

“All right then—I’ll lay off with the clichés and come right out with it,” Lily said, her words filling Hermione’s stomach with a dozen butterflies of anticipation. “James tells me that Sirius has quite a lot to say about you.” 

Hermione sat up quickly and clutched her pillow to her stomach to quell the intense excitement she got from the unexpected revelation.  _ Sirius? _ The thought made her want to grin stupidly as well as cause her to feel incredibly honored. As far as she was concerned, Sirius Black’s good opinion was worth one’s weight in gold—and the thought that he might fancy  _ her _ of all people… _ What a mess!  _ Her inner conscience whispered to her.  _ I thought you weren’t going to change anything! _

“Hermia?” Lily touched her shoulder lightly, trying to get her attention. “You all right?”

“Yes—just…bowled over, I guess,” Hermione admitted. 

“Well—you held hands earlier today, didn’t you?” Lily pointed out, nudging Hermione with a special kind of smile on her face.

“Oh, but that was just to calm  _ him _ down, you know,” Hermione said very seriously—until she realized that it wouldn’t have occurred to her to do the same for Remus or any of the others.

“Did  _ you _ feel calm at the time?” Lily emphasized with uplifted brows, making her blush.

“No,” she admitted, covering her face with the pillow and allowing herself to fall backwards onto the bed again. “I felt like I could fly.”

 

=====

 

_ Dear Hermione, _

_ I can’t sleep—I think I have a problem. _

_ I…I have a crush on someone. And there must be something about the air here because the more I tell myself he’s completely unsuitable the more exciting it is to think about him that way. The most ridiculous part is, thinking over the past week or so I can actually track exactly how it happened. Sometimes a methodical mind is a (delightful) curse, because I can sit here and relive all those (amazing!) moments and tell myself it’s research. _

_ What is wrong with me? _

_ You know, I ask that, and I don’t even know what I mean by it. Part of me says I mean ‘why can’t I feel like this about someone from my own time, my own age?’ Another part of me asks me how I could possibly allow myself to even –think- of meddling with time like this? I didn’t even realize how I felt until Lily showed up and… _

_ I’m afraid to even write it down, for fear of making it real, DELICIOUSLY making it real. _

_ I’m going to, anyway. _

_ Lily says Sirius fancies me, too. She says James says (oh and don’t even get me started on girlish gossip and the like. –Stabs girlish gossip and giggling in the eye with spoon-) he won’t stop talking about me… _

_ Nana believes very firmly in hell—I’m not so sure. I think I’d be likely to find out about it if I allow myself to feel what I’m already feeling, though. Because…the truth is—the very –thought- of liking him, of him liking me in return—it sends me straight to heaven, something else Nana believes in, and I didn’t, until today… _

  
  


=====

 

Hermione didn’t know how to behave at breakfast. Tuesdays she had double Potions and DADA—two of her favorite classes, the first of which Sirius had as well. She didn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed that he typically sat behind her in Potions—she wouldn’t be able to look at him without drawing attention to herself. Lily didn’t help matters by sitting in Hermione’s customary seat, forcing her to sit across from where Sirius always sat. Hermione took out her quill and scribbled ‘ _ too obvious _ !’ on a slip of parchment to show her disapproval.

Lily just flashed her a bright smile and crumpled the paper up as she saw the boys approach the table. Hermione saw that Remus wasn’t among them, and scooted slightly to her right as though she’d meant to be sitting next to Lily in the first place.

“Good morning, lovely ladies!” James was clearly in a good mood.

“Morning, sunshine,” Lily said with the barest hint of sarcasm in her voice. “Where’s Remus this morning?”

“Oh, he’s not ill again is he?” Hermione said in concern, taking the opportunity to play dumb about his condition.

“No, not ill,” James said with a little scowl, explaining, “It seems he is avoiding the inevitable fallout. The err…” he looked around to see if anyone was listening to their conversation, and leaned in to continue with a lowered voice. “ _ Artifact _ that was lent to you last evening wasn’t his.” Hermione lifted an eyebrow.

“Your hands don’t hurt this morning, do they?” she said, buttering a muffin in a businesslike manner without looking up to see his reaction.

“Well no,” he said, adjusting his glasses with one hand as he examined the other.

“Then, what’s the problem?” Hermione looked up then, gazing at him steadily for a long minute before adding, “you’re welcome.” James looked extremely uncomfortable and mumbled a quick thanks, suddenly very interested in filling his plate with all manner of breakfast food to avoid her eyes.

“You didn’t thank her yet?” Sirius said in outrage, punching his friend’s shoulder to punctuate his statement.

“Did  _ you _ ?” Potter asked around a mouthful of food.

“Err…” Sirius couldn’t look at her. “Hand me that platter,” he said to James, seeming to approve of the ‘fill plate with food, avoid eye contact’ strategy.

“Men!” Lily sighed.

It was the first time Hermione had seen Sirius since hearing of his regard for her and realizing that she returned it. She felt almost as if she were in a half-waking state—her body went through the motions normally, but her mind was focused on  _ him _ instead of what she was eating or talking about. She found herself looking at him often; Hermione both thanked and cursed her friend for the seating arrangements, as it was easier to look up and see him, something that caused her blood to begin pumping what felt like champagne instead of serum. It had the same effect as champagne, too.

Twice he caught her looking at him, and the result of that contact felt more physical than visual. The two of them remained uncharacteristically quiet during the rest of the meal, missing the knowing looks that James and Lily sent each other periodically.

She regained a good deal of her concentration in Potions, where they were assigned to make Blood Replenishing Potions to help restock the infirmary. As it was to be used for students who were injured rather than simply to get good marks in class, Hermione forced herself to forget about anything other than doing a good job. Even after she’d finished her batch, she was pleased to note that it took her more than two minutes to remember why she  _ really _ liked Tuesdays. She purposefully ignored the fact that she would have  _ really _ liked whatever day came after Lily’s revelation of the night before.

Something happened as she was leaving Potions on the way to lunch that caused her to quite forget her emotional predicament for a short while, as well.

Her former Housemate Prynne, whose last name Hermione had discovered to be Aubrey, had walked up to her looking rather nervous. The dark-eyed girl then proceeded to surprise Hermione greatly by actually apologizing for what had happened to her, expressing what appeared to be genuine regret that she had been treated so poorly while a resident in Slytherin. It was clear to Hermione that Prynne had been working up to the apology for a long time, and she wondered what had brought it on—but the other girl’s gesture of goodwill apparently didn’t extend to a discussion, as she excused herself hurriedly and moved off down the hall.

Hermione had fully intended to bring up this odd occurrence at lunch—until she got there and found the atmosphere to be a little charged as it was. Apparently James had still managed to express his disapproval to Remus about lending out his things when he wasn’t there—even though she’d used it to help him out.

“James Potter,” she said the moment she sat down, “didn’t your mother teach you to share?” Her comment had definitely been appropriate to the conversation held before her arrival, judging from the reactions of the others.

“How did she know?” James asked Sirius as an aside.

“Might have something to do with the vein pulsing at your forehead,” Sirius said casually. The look on James’ face turned slightly sheepish as he looked across the table at Remus.

“I wasn’t too harsh with you, was I Moony?” he said, his concern for his friend making him completely miss the whole ‘private nickname’ thing. The whole group of them just froze in place for a split second, something Hermione found quite amusing but didn’t want to draw attention to.

“You’ll never believe what just happened to me in the hall,” she said as if she hadn’t heard Potter’s mistake—wondering as she did so how many of these little slips she would have to play off before she could start asking about them. 

Remus almost made her mind up for her when he replied with, “Not at all, Prongs.” On the other side of Hermione, Lily let out a choked sort of repressed laugh.

“Behave, or I’ll give  _ you _ one,” threatened James, and Hermione gave up, noting that the other three boys were snickering into their sleeves.

“All right, what gives with the odd nicknames,” she asked resignedly. “I was going to try to ignore them but you lot seem determined to make it a big deal.” At her confession, Remus, Sirius, and Peter gave up all pretense of keeping a straight face and began to laugh in earnest.

Hermione decided to make the most of this.

“I suppose yours are equally unique?” she nodded at Peter and Sirius; the inflection she used on the word ‘unique’ sent the latter into a fit of raucous laughter.

“Can’t be worse than ‘Prongs,’” James remarked with a grin.

“Oh, you mean like ‘Moony?’” Remus said dryly.

“Precisely.”

“At least you got to  _ choose _ yours,” the werewolf retorted.

“Oh, ‘Prongs’ I can figure out, no problem,” Hermione said airily. Five pairs of eyes fixated on her immediately. “His hair sticks out.”

“You’re very astute,” James said, nodding.

“I don’t think I’ll risk offending Peter by guessing possibles,” Hermione continued, with a polite nod to Pettigrew. “ _ Yours _ , however,” pointing to Sirius, “—yours shouldn’t be too difficult to figure out.” He winked at her, sending her pulse racing and installing a pair of butterflies in her stomach. 

 

=====

 

Sirius was completely enchanted. Hermia was perched at the edge of her seat, the quill she’d been using to mark time in Potions forgotten in the mass of hair she’d pulled back into a messy French braid. Her eyes sparkled with mirth, and there was a certain quality about her that he hadn’t seen before. He’d caught her stealing glances at him during breakfast a few times, something that had lifted his confidence to sky level each time.  _ She felt it, too! _ He was sure of it.

Sirius forgot about class or even the rest of his lunch; he focused instead on Hermia and the delightful way she held the attention of the group, guessing what his secret nickname was. She had, inevitably, retrieved a piece of parchment from her bag and was busy marking items on it as if it were a checklist.

“Does he talk in his sleep?” she asked, quill in one hand and mug of pumpkin juice in the other.

“Negative,” answered Peter.

“That means ‘Morpheus’ is out,” Hermia said, looking slightly disappointed. Having expected her to come up with something incredibly ridiculous, Sirius was almost disappointed at the respectable suggestion she’d just crossed off. He didn’t have long to wait, however.

“Are you in the habit of singing in the shower?” She had placed the second quill into her hair before leaning forward and asking him her question with severe voice and narrowed eyes. Not trusting himself to speak, he simply shook his head vigorously.

“Liar,” James whispered at him, too low for her to detect.

“That takes ‘Yodello’ off of the list.” As most of her audience collapsed into helpless giggles, Hermia reached up and pulled a quill from her hair in order to cross off the preposterous nickname. Sirius’ heart swelled with affection at this—it was the wrong quill. Hermia was baffled for a long minute, unnoticed by any but Sirius (for the rest of the group were still laughing), until he reached over the table and lifted the second quill gently from her hair. She blushed and smiled shyly at him as she took it.

James was right—he  _ did _ have it bad.

Lunch adjourned, and the six of them left as a group on the off chance that Malfoy would be waiting outside again, but he wasn’t. Remus, James, and Hermia started for the hallway that led to the DADA classroom.

“Hermia?” he called out, unwilling to see her leave without learning his nickname from his own lips. He liked how she spoke quietly to their friends before stepping away, her consideration for them an extension of how he felt about her. Sirius didn’t think he could ever care deeply about someone who brushed off his friends or his friendship with them—even if it was for him.

She walked over to him, the image of her coming to speak specifically to him such a pleasing one that he stood still to make it last longer.

“My nickname,” he said, reaching up to tuck an errant lock of hair behind her ear, and finding the little shiver she gave in response intoxicating.

She smiled warmly, shaking her head a tiny bit as she said, “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”

“I want to,” he said. Sirius was reminded of the Owlery, the way she’d looked at him with honesty in her lovely brown eyes, just as she was doing now. “It’s ‘Padfoot.”

“Oh!” she said, and he could actually see her processing the information. Her eyebrow quirked slightly, and she said, “Are you Hogwarts’ guardian, then?”

The fact that she’d picked  _ that _ meaning, instead of the more sinister use of the term ‘padfoot’ meant a lot to him. Hermia excused herself with a bright smile and a quick squeeze of his hand—something that was becoming somewhat of a thing between them, like a physical shorthand. Sirius wandered to Astronomy class, arriving ten minutes late but apologizing with such charming elegance that Professor Sinistra couldn’t bring herself to dock him House points for it.

 

=====

 

“That was  _ fantastic _ !” James said as the three of them walked back toward the castle from the outskirts of the Forbidden Forest. Professor Sapiens had combined her lesson that day with Professor Kettleburn, the Care of Magical Creatures teacher. For the first part of the afternoon, they learned about creatures like the Basilisk, the magical properties of Unicorns and many others, ending with a surprise practical lesson on the fringes of the Forbidden Forest. Kettleburn didn’t have a Basilisk, of course—and Hermione thought with no small irony that she had had plenty of experience with one, anyway—but he had a particular friendship with a delightfully lovely female Unicorn, and knew of a few other places to find exotic beasts and creatures in the Forest itself.

Hermione had felt quite strange as the group had passed the small pond beside which Harry and Sirius had been attacked by Dementors, glad that she would never have to witness something like that again, no matter  _ how _ much she meddled with time.

“I am very impressed with Professor Sapiens, that’s for certain,” Hermione said enthusiastically.

“She’s a very good teacher,” Remus agreed. As they neared the massive front doors of the castle, they were surprised to find Peter, Sirius, and Lily coming toward them, the latter two carrying a basket between them.

“It’s far too beautiful a day to eat indoors,” Sirius called out to them, lifting his end of the basket and nearly tipping Lily into the grass as he did so. Peter stepped forward quickly to take the handle from her, and she thanked him nicely as she wrung her bruised hand and glared at Black.

“Professor Dumbledore seems to have gone slightly batty,” the redhead explained to the three DADA students. “He stood up and declared that we all needed to experience the great outdoors, and conjured up a massive array of various sized baskets for everyone to take their food outside.”

“ _ Gone _ batty would imply he wasn’t already there,” James observed dryly.

“It’s a joke, right?” Hermione asked Peter and Sirius. “There’s a bucket of slimy frogs in there or something.” She peered at the oblong basket the two boys still held between them, sure that at any moment the lid would fly off and  _ something _ would emerge.

“I would  _ not _ have carried a wicker basket full of frogs from the Great Hall to the front lawn,” Lily declared.

Hermione wasn’t convinced, even as the group of them moved off toward the lake to find a scenic spot to settle down to eat. She sidled up to Peter to ask him what was in the basket.

“As far as I know, the only possibly slimy item in there are whipped potatoes,” he said without guile.

“Hermia,” Sirius said to her playfully as he and Pettigrew finally set the heavy basket down on the frilly blanket Lily had conjured for them. “Do you really think I’d ask you out with a basket of slimy frogs?”

There was a momentary pause in their companions’ conversation before the other four students chose to continue as if they hadn’t heard Sirius’ statement. Hermione’s eyes went wide. Sirius was looking at her with no discernable sign of discomfort or even nervousness, simply waiting to see what she would say. Somehow his confidence made her blood feel as though it were slowly transmuting into wine, starting at her chest and moving slowly outward until even her fingers and toes were warmed by his gaze.

“I don’t know,” she finally said, causing a few heads to turn quickly in her direction, as their friends had clearly been merely feigning conversation. “ _ Would _ you?”

Hermione’s heart was beating so loudly she was sure she’d scared away every animal within a kilometer of their location.


	23. More Than Cool Reason Comprehends

  
Your love in all its finery  
Tearing the darkness all around me  
Till I can breathe again  
Till I can believe again

‘Cause I’m a train wreck  
Waiting to happen  
Waiting for someone to come pick me up off the tracks  
A wildfire born of frustration  
Born of the one love that gets me so high—  
I have no fear at all  
- _Train Wreck, Sarah McLachlan_

 

“Note to self:” Sirius said softly, his eyes locked on hers. “Women like Hermia are not impressed by baskets full of slimy frogs.” His tone was playful, but his grey eyes regarded her steadily, baring for her the truth of his inner feelings. Hermione could barely breathe—she’d always known Sirius to be an intense man, but had never been the object of his intensity. Sirius seemed to have noticed the mood’s switch to a much more serious tone, because his next statement lifted the tension and brought their friends back into the conversation.

“What about _half_ a basket of slimy frogs?”

“Give up now, Padfoot,” James said from over his shoulder.

“Ah, but the frogs or the girl—that is the question,” Remus teased.

“Definitely the frogs,” Sirius decided firmly. At Lily and Hermione’s shocked gasps, he amended quickly, “ _Giving up_ on the frogs, of course. Nasty creatures.”

“This had better _not_ turn into a recurring theme,” Hermione threatened, deciding to sit on a rock near to the flowered blanket they were congregated around. Sirius took his cue from her and sat nearby, conjuring a chair to settle next to her. The four others of their little group seemed to think the two of them needed some privacy, and so they’d settled themselves with their backs to Hermione and Sirius.

“So, you never answered my question,” Sirius said hesitantly, handing her a glass of water.

“Do you mean your actual question?” Hermione asked archly, “—or the _hidden meaning_ to the actual question—because the answer to that is no, I really don’t think you’d ask me out with a basket of frogs.” 

“I didn’t really mean to ask that,” he said quickly, freezing her blood in place.

“Oh,” she managed. Sirius looked over at her intently, guessing from her tone of voice that something was wrong.

“Oh, Hermia—that’s not what I meant,” he said, reaching over to pull a leaf from her hair that had gotten caught there from the excursion into the woods. She turned her head to look at him, and the position of his hand placed it against her cheek. She found with wonder that his hand was trembling. He leaned over, his rich black hair falling over his forehead and into his eyes as he fixed her with a steady grey gaze that made _her_ tremble. “We’re not very good at this, are we?” he asked gently. 

Hermione shook her head slightly, causing Sirius’ hand to brush against her ear and make her shiver again. He slid the hand away from her face gently, resting it on the jutting part of the rock behind her.

“Will you come to Hogsmeade with me on Saturday?” Speechless, she nodded. “Will you promise not to study everything possible about it before we go?” he teased, pulling back so that they could both finish eating.

“I don’t study _everything_ about—” she began to protest, but he cut her off.

“Only because the library doesn’t contain every book ever written on any subject,” he said, baiting her.

“I’d like to study _you_ ,” she said, neatly turning the focus of their conversation to him rather than her.

“I don’t stand up well to scrutiny,” he said gruffly. Undeterred, she spoke again.

“I rather think it depends on who is doing the looking.” Hermione reached out and placed a timid hand on his leg, guessing that he was likely thinking about his estranged family and the opinion they had of him. His large hand covered hers after a long moment, and she said, “What counts are the opinions of the people you care about—what anyone else thinks doesn’t matter unless you _let_ it matter.” 

“Your opinion counts,” he said, his thumb brushing lightly over the top of her hand and causing her breaths to come more quickly.

“I’m glad,” Hermione said, getting to her feet regretfully as a chill wind began to blow across the water. As she stood, Sirius did as well, retaining his gentle grip on her hand. Hermione began to walk, and Sirius came with her, the couple holding hands and walking a little ways along the bank of the lake, stopping next to a log that blocked any further movement. They stood for a long while without speaking, simply taking in the sensations that came from holding hands for the first time. The sun began to set, and their friends tiptoed away, sensing that the moment was special and not to be interrupted.

“I’m glad my opinion counts,” Hermione reiterated after they had watched the last rays of the sun settling behind the hillside, and begun the walk back to the castle, “—because I think rather highly of you.”

“Just wait,” he said, beginning to swing their joined hands in the manner of a five-year-old child. “That’ll change.” He grinned at her impishly and she couldn’t resist grinning back.

“I don’t watch sunsets with just anyone, you know,” she informed him, shaking his swinging hand with hers and adding, “That’s a special event—even if they do try to rip my arm from its socket afterward.”

“Oh, sorry,” he apologized quickly, releasing her hand to her disappointment. She was suddenly far too shy to reach for his hand to reestablish contact, so she simply walked beside him as they wound their way to the Gryffindor tower. Her shyness remained once they climbed through the portrait hole and saw their four friends nearly quivering in anticipation of their arrival. She excused herself quickly, suddenly desperate to pour her soul out to her journal as though her head wasn’t big enough to hold all of her thoughts, like Professor Dumbledore had remarked about in regards to the Pensieve.

=====

_Tuesday, September 20th, 1977_

> _Dear Hermione,_
> 
> _Oh, my hand is still tingling. At dinner—which was, very strangely, outside—Sirius just blurted out something about asking me out! If you’d have handed me a broom and asked me to play Seeker for Gryffindor right there, I’d have done it. (And hopefully the high would have lasted long enough for me to catch the Snitch, because coming out of euphoria like that to find myself hundreds of yards off the ground isn’t something I’d like to think about!)  
>  He sat with me at dinner and touched my face—I can still feel exactly where, too—and held my hand!_
> 
> _—It should be noted here that I deplore excesses of exclamation points. If and when I reread this, therefore, I suggest that every instance of an exclamation point be multiplied by a relatively high number—_
> 
> _He asked me to spend the day at Hogsmeade with him, and the only thing I worry about is that he specifically asked me not to go and find out everything I can before we go (Merlin, he knows me that well already-!), but I already KNOW a lot about it…and unless I spend the whole day feigning interest—something I really don’t want to do, because I’m sure he’ll be able to tell!—he’ll think that I went and looked everything up after him asking me not to._
> 
> _Maybe I can tell him I read everything about Hogwarts and Hogsmeade before I came here—goodness knows it’s true._
> 
> _I just know I’m going to be too excited to sleep._

=====

Wednesday, September 21st, 1977

> _Dear Hermione,_
> 
> _Reality is setting in. Every ten minutes I’ve got this voice telling me ‘what are you THINKING?! This is everyone’s FUTURE you’re meddling with!’ and unfortunately it’s a lot more mature a voice than the other, ‘HE HELD MY HAND!’ that is popping up every five minutes._
> 
> _The problem is that I already loved Sirius platonically before I even got here. He is one of the best men I’ve ever known, with one of the most pure hearts despite all that he went through before I met him. Seeing him alive and well and without the burden of horror accumulated over all those years…that combined with how handsome and strong he is, and the way he is with his friends—_
> 
> _Is it any wonder that I’m falling for him?_
> 
> _I’ve always hated this part of myself but—I tend to make snap decisions. Luckily the first quick decision I usually make is to research the living daylights out of whatever it is that I’m trying to do, so that I can make an informed decision, but…little things like cutting my hair or buying an expensive reference book that I don’t need but am determined to have so I can look at it whenever I want without some idiotic Second Year using it to look at gory diagrams of—err, right._
> 
> _Point is, it appears that my heart makes snap decisions as well. You can probably guess the most recent one…_
> 
> _The devil of it is, I can’t help but think that this is a really bad development. If I could worry about the effect on the timeline from simply having someone sleeping in the girls dormitory when before, that bed was empty—what would having someone be in LOVE change?_
> 
> _Of course, I’m getting ahead of myself. My falling in love (you are NOT allowed to fall in love, Hermione Jane Granger!) would have little to no effect (as I fully intend to remain true to the future timeline, no matter what it costs me mentally or emotionally), but Sirius is a passionate and volatile man._
> 
> _…a man who deserves even a small, fleeting chance at happiness…_
> 
> _And can I just take a short moment to ask, how can someone like –that- fancy ME of all people?! I like to think of myself as a pretty strong personality, but just the thought of someone that amazing caring for me…he carried my bag from Transfiguration to lunch today. He says he’s going to look in a catalogue that’s in the library about book bags that have self-levitating spells on them to make them lighter—I very nearly told him that I’ve never heard of anything like that in my time, so I seriously doubt there are any in his, but didn’t._
> 
> _Oh, WHY didn’t Professor Dumbledore send me away?_
> 
> _I CAN’T have him, it’s not worth the risk…but I’m just an eighteen-year-old witch who (—Great Merlin, I didn’t even notice my ‘birthday’ (or should I say, birth date) was a couple of days ago! I suppose it didn’t mean anything anyway, as I haven’t even been born yet!) finds herself falling for someone fantastic._
> 
> _Speaking of ‘fantastic,’ it’s fantastically late. Good night._
> 
> _OH! One more thing—I thought I was going to get over this ‘awe’ thing, but all I can think about is what a fantastic person he is and—  
>  Do you think he’s even very possibly slightly in perhaps awe of me, too?_
> 
> _No, that would be ridiculous. Go to bed, Hermione._

=====

Thursday, September 22nd, 1977

> _I’ve just gotten back from a long walk._
> 
> _I can’t stop crying._
> 
> _I’ve made the decision that I will not, absolutely CANNOT follow through with any sort of relationship with anyone in this time period._
> 
> _This is the RIGHT decision. I certainly can’t stay here, and the ramifications of my even –existing- here— much less having others form attachments to me—are too frightening to even comprehend. My duties are to protect Harry, help the Order of the Phoenix against Voldemort (if Professor Dumbledore thinks for one MINUTE that he’s keeping me out of the Order after the time I’ve spent here, he’ll be sorely mistaken), and to not go slowly insane at the thought of losing the lives of people who for me have died years and decades ago._
> 
> _My name is Hermione Jane Granger, I was born on September 19th, 1979, I am 18 years old, and I don’t belong here._
> 
> _Now, if I could just stop crying…_

=====

Sirius had a lot of trouble sleeping on Tuesday, a lot of which had to do with the fact that the hand he’d touched Hermia’s hair with had smelled very lightly of wisteria for a short while. After a lot of friendly questions and good-natured ribbing, he’d turned in early just as she had, telling himself that it had been a very bad decision to speak up as he had in front of his friends. He loved them all dearly, but he had enough trouble knowing how he felt about Hermia without their asking him to quantify it for them every five minutes.

All he knew was that he felt very vulnerable around her—a feeling he usually abhorred—but with her, it felt…appropriate. As though she’d come into his life to make him all right with the painful things and to bring appreciation to the pleasurable ones.

He also knew with complete certainty that he would severely injure or maim anyone that hurt her.

Sirius hoped very much that this decision wouldn’t include himself.

His life was so active, so lively, and yet the most profound thing he’d done with Hermia—besides break down and cry like a child after she’d touched him the first time—had been to hold hands during a sunset. Perhaps when James calmed down slightly and stopped asking him penetrating questions about his feelings, he could ask his friend if he could remember what it had felt like, falling in love with Lily.

=====

During their Wednesday Transfiguration class, Hermia had managed to wean a full fifteen House points from Professor McGonagall. Sirius’ heart had swelled with a strange sort of pride as she managed to complete a rapid succession of spells and Transfiguration that their Head of House had told them was an extra-credit part of their Transfiguration N.E.W.T.s. The professor had clearly brought it up to demonstrate to the class just how far they had to go before they were prepared to take their finals—but Hermia had breezed through it as though she were _administering_ the exam rather than months away from being prepared to take it.

He’d felt it an honor to take her bag from her and carry it to the Great Hall, and Sirius really hoped the self-levitating bag he’d seen in some random catalogue really did exist. If anyone deserved something like that, it was Hermia.

That night, he spent a full two hours in the library searching for the right catalogue, to no avail.

=====

By Friday, Sirius was slightly worried. Hermia had missed breakfast, and she showed up in the hallway on her way to Charms looking thoroughly miserable, as though she hadn’t slept a wink. He couldn’t even appreciate the fact that she’d let her hair stay down, because he was almost certain she’d done it to stop anyone from seeing her crying. He couldn’t imagine what could possibly have changed from the day before—she’d seemed distant, but not anything that couldn’t have been explained as concentration or preoccupation with her classwork. Today though, he was sure there was something else wrong—perhaps she’d learned of a death in the family.

He’d just resolved to ask her after lunch what the problem was when an owl dropped onto the table in front of him and held out a leg on which was attached a rolled up piece of parchment.

The second Hermia saw the letter, she burst into tears and left the table, generating a strong feeling of foreboding in Sirius as he took the proffered paper from the post owl.

> _Dear Sirius,_
> 
> _I don’t know quite what to write. My feelings are confused and I fear I’ve led you to believe that I hold you in a higher regard than I’m capable of expressing. I wanted to let you know that I care very deeply for you as a friend, and as a friend, I didn’t want to hurt you by leading you on.  
>  There are still many emotional issues I need to work through, and as I’ve never really spent extended periods of time among my peers, I believe I am completely over my head when it comes to these things._
> 
> _I hope we can remain friends,  
>  Hermia_

“ _Codswallop_!” Sirius yelled, resolving to go look for the Room of Requirement before his next class so he could express his emotions in verbal extremity without worrying about losing five dozen House points. Just as Hermia had before him, he completely ignored the concerns of the other four Gryffindors and stalked off, shooting such a black look at a Second Year that the girl nearly burst into tears.

=====

Hermione was sure she’d made a right foul mess of her time in the past. Sirius would never forgive her once he got her letter; she knew him well enough to know that he valued strength of character above all things, and she’d just showed a deplorable _lack_ of that. At this point she just hoped that Lily would remain friends with her, and maybe the others, though that would be unlikely due to the inseparable nature of the Marauders’ friendships with each other—and Sirius would most likely detest the very sight of her now.

She told herself it was for the best, that his anger now would be much better than whatever heartache would have inevitably happened down the line.

_Now, if I could only stop being so –miserable-…_

She was hiding on the bridge between the Castle and the twisting road to Hogsmeade; no one really came here except on outing weekends and days of Quidditch Matches, as the road wound around the field as well. Hermione hoped she would calm down soon, she’d never been so upset for so long, and she didn’t want to worry anyone. _A little late for that, don’t you think?_ her inner voice berated her acidly—as did another voice.

“That note was pathetic,” Sirius said from the shadows, his voice harsh as she had known it would be. “Why couldn’t you have just told me you weren’t feeling well, or you wanted to sleep in on Saturday?” His tone had gentled as he spoke, and Hermione looked at him incredulously, forgetting completely that she had resolved not to speak much to him, and _definitely_ not to look at him, as her feelings were still much too near to risk it.

He almost sounded as if he thought the whole thing was just to get out of going to Hogsmeade with him!

“I never sleep in on Saturdays,” she said, turning her back on him with a harshness that nearly broke _her_ heart to perform.

“If you’d rather spend your time with Lily—”

“This isn’t about Hogsmeade!” she said shrilly, wishing he hadn’t chosen to make this so hard on her.

“Then what is it about?” Sirius was harsh, but not anywhere near as upset as she’d anticipated. She’d deliberately sent him a letter instead of speaking to him directly, using her knowledge of his character in ways that were supposed to have made him _furious_.

“Didn’t you _read_ the letter?” she asked, trying to draw on her anger to fuel the argument, as he seemed determined to be reasonable with her.

“Hermia, do you find me attractive?”

Hermione’s heart as well as her stomach did a series of flip-flops at this latest question. _Of COURSE I do!_ she wanted to scream at him, _That’s the whole problem!_ Instead, she forced her tone to be as scathing as possible.

“That’s not the issue, here.”

“Well, I’m making it the issue,” Sirius continued, his voice nearer now. “I am attracted to _you_.” She turned to see where he was standing, disturbed to see that he’d gotten within a yard or two of her without her realizing it.

“Well, do you?” His eyes glittered in the half-light, so intense that she could feel how easy it would be to get swept away…and love it, _love every bloody minute of it._

“Sirius,” she said, trying to be exasperated instead of excited. _This cannot be happening_ , she thought. “It’s…complicated,” she said instead, the feigned anger and bitterness dropping from her voice completely. 

“It seems rather simple to me,” he persisted. “You either find someone attractive, or you don’t.” He took a step forward. “And, I do.” His voice was rough when he said it, in ways that made her feel as if she were both melting and burning inside. This was all wrong. He was supposed to be romantic and pleading, so she could be firm and apologetic. She could say no to a man who tried to woo her with gentleness and respect—but this…oh, _this_ was stormy and deep and _tempting_. She couldn’t look at him.

“There’s more to it than that,” she stalled. “I can’t be involved with anyone, not now, not here.”

He took another step toward her. “Why?”

“It’s—complicated,” she repeated.

She was running out of space to back away from him, and running out of willpower to take the steps. Hermione wasn’t sure if her Gryffindor bravery was supposed to help her run away or _stand still_. All she knew is that the most amazing man she’d ever met in her life was about three steps away from making her mind up for her. Sirius stepped forward again.

_Make that two._

“Why does it have to be…‘complicated?’” his voice rumbled, reminding her of what it sounded like in his future, causing the passionate phrases to echo in her head; recalling to her the reasons she couldn’t stop herself from loving him. _‘I would have died! Died, rather than betray my friends!’_ The memory of what twelve years in Azkaban Prison had done—was _going_ to do—to the vibrant young man in front of her made her heart nearly burst with anger, frustration, and grief. She let out a choked sob.

Instantly, he was beside her, wrapping her up in his arms comfortingly yet still conveying the image of a man who would not be deterred.

“I’m not all _that_ bad,” he said.

The reaction was so perfect, the right way to calm her and yet, maddeningly and endearingly, also maintain the subject she was trying to avoid—and it made her love him twice as much as she already did, right there on the spot. “Although I guess I _have_ made you cry,” he said, his cheek resting on the top of her head; each breath he let out teased the hair over her left ear, sending shockwaves of awareness through her body.

“It wasn’t _you_ as much as the situation,” she said in a low voice.

“You think too much,” he said in a tender whisper, his arms tightening for a quick moment as if he didn’t want to let her go. Then he stepped back, his hands coming to rest on her upper arms, making it impossible for her to turn away from him. She focused her eyes on his chest, knowing she was no equal to the fire in his eyes. His hands squeezed her arms slightly. “Stop thinking.” She wanted to look at him so badly she could almost taste it, but she closed her eyes.

His hands left her, and for a split second she believed she’d done it, managed to resist him—and then he took a step forward and his hands were cupping her face.

“Look at me and tell me you don’t.”

How did you fight someone as strong as he was when you didn’t want to fight him at all?

It was becoming almost impossible to ignore the delicious feelings his hands on her face were evoking. If twelve years in Azkaban hadn’t broken this man, what chance did she have—particularly when she didn’t particularly _want_ to deny how she felt…was running out of excuses as to why it was wrong.

“Don’t do that—don’t make me lie…” she gasped out, her body swaying toward his unconsciously, eyes still shut. A hand left her face to curl around her waist and press her against him.

“Which would be the lie, Mia?” he asked her, the endearment sounding to her weary soul like a name she’d always _wished_ she could be known by. As he pressed a kiss to her temple, making her legs weak, she clutched at the front of his robes unconsciously, trying to hold herself up. “…That you don’t want me—or you do?” his breath was hot against her ear, and she was lost. Sirius buried his head in her hair, letting out what was almost a low growl as he did so.

Hermione remembered what she’d written in her journal the day she’d gotten it from Dumbledore—she’d written about her decision to _live_ , truly live, instead of pretending as though she were merely marking time. It was the memory of those words written before she’d even spoken to the young Sirius Black that gave her the courage to lift her head from his chest and look at him.

“Whatever it is,” he whispered to her, one hand still wrapped in her hair, “I’ll help you with it, I promise.” Sirius kissed her cheeks gently, the hand from her hair coming around to brush away the remainder of her tears. Hermione raised one of her hands that were trapped between them to touch his hair, feeling him tremble as she did so, and realizing her power to hurt as well as please him.

“I’m sorry,” she began to say, but before she could finish the second word, he kissed her softly, as though pressing too close would make her dissolve and fade away. 

All of Hermione’s protestations melted, all her noble goals fizzled. If she had allowed herself to daydream about what kissing Sirius would be like, she’d never have guessed it to be like this. He was confident, as he was with everything, but he was also patient. He dragged his lips against hers slowly, persuasively, as though he had only to wait for her to pull him closer. He didn’t have to wait long; Hermione’s fingers tightened on his shirt and she lifted herself up on her toes to press closer to him. In response, Sirius slid one hand into her hair and the other down to catch at her waist, the casual strength of his hold on her making her gasp.

At this, he angled his head and deepened the kiss, tangling their lips together and turning his body to settle his shoulders into the gap between columns. The shift of his weight pulled her even closer against him, striking up heat so bright and fierce where they pressed together that Hermione felt she could almost see the sparks behind her eyelids. Sirius twisted his hand in her hair and slid his tongue against hers, the action causing them both to catch their breath, practically sharing the warm air between the two of them. 

Hermione kissed his jaw, nosing against it to settle her head at his shoulder as she curled her arms around him. Sirius kept his arm around her waist, the weight and pull of it keeping her body grounded even as her mind and heart flew like fireworks to explode in magical colors all around them.


	24. No Puddifoots, Please

The quiet child awaits the day when she can break free  
The mold that clings like desperation  
Mother can’t you see I’ve got  
To live my life the way I feel is right for me  
Might not be right for you but it’s right for me…  
I believe, I believe  
- _Elsewhere, Sarah McLachlan_

 

Hermione finally understood the power of scent to evoke emotional and physical responses. She’d seen other girls gigglingly buy their boyfriend’s shampoo or cologne just so they could sniff it, something she had thought at the time was incredibly absurd. When she woke on Saturday morning, however, the first thing she could smell was evergreen—and the memories it brought to her were overwhelmingly exciting. Hermione opened her eyes to see that the girl whose bed was next to hers was awake. Juli had her trunk open with a small basket of pine needles and cones set next to it on the floor.

“Oh, did I wake you?” the girl said, her gorgeous grey-green eyes apologetic when she saw that Hermione was looking in her direction.

“Not at all,” Hermione assured her. She wanted very much to ask if the blonde girl could spare a small pinecone, but reminded herself firmly that whether or not odors triggered memories, she was _not_ going to do anything she’d seen Lavender Brown giggle about. She stood up and walked to the window after donning a robe in Gryffindor colors. The sky was mostly clear, with a few wispy clouds and a movement to the trees that spoke of a gentle wind. “What a beautiful view,” she sighed contentedly.

“A lot better than the one from Slytherin, I would imagine,” Juli said, turning beet red as though realizing what she’d just said could have sounded mean-spirited. Hermione didn’t wish to make her uncomfortable by seeming as if she’d even noticed that possibility, so she turned back to the morning scene.

“ _Much_ nicer,” she said with a small laugh. “They don’t have windows.” 

“Really?”

“Really,” Hermione confirmed, moving away from the window to sit on her bed facing the other girl. “They’re in the dungeons.”

“I’d hate to live down where I couldn’t have fresh air at night!” Juli made a face.

“Makes you wonder if they act the way they do simply from a lack of good circulation, doesn’t it?” Hermione joked, making a clever reference to that particular House’s obsession with pure bloodlines.

“That was a _good_ one,” Warbeck said admiringly. Hermione blushed, inheriting the other girl’s shyness for a little while as she busied herself with getting dressed.

“Hermia?” Lily’s voice was muffled, as Hermione’s ears were covered by her shirt. She felt slightly nervous to face her friend again—in her desperation to avoid a responsible decision regarding Sirius, she’d practically thrown away her other friendships in her own mind, doubly so by not explaining her odd behavior on Friday.

“Oh, hello Lily!” Juli’s voice was full of affection as she greeted the Head Girl.

“Hey Juli—see you at breakfast?” Lily said in the same tone, and Hermione heard the door at the end of the room closing. She turned slowly to face the other girl, wondering what sort of a lecture she would get for her behavior.

“Oh, Hermia!” To her complete surprise, Lily ran over to her and enveloped her in a huge hug. “Are you all right? We’ve been so worried!”

“I—oh, Lily, I’m sorry, I was so worried that I’d hurt you—” Hermione’s heart was full, overcome to just the point before tears but not quite. Her prevailing thought at that moment was the pain of knowing _just how much_ Harry had missed by not knowing her.

“Of _course_ you hurt me,” Lily said to Hermione’s astonishment. “That wasn’t the important part, though—the important part was whether or not you’re all right.” That statement, the sentiment of a true friend, tipped the scales. Hermione burst into tears. “Oh, don’t cry,” Lily said, sitting her down on the bed and smoothing her hair. Hermione rested her head on Lily’s shoulder, feeling simultaneously better and worse due to her friend’s comforting behavior.

“I’m not very good at this,” she nearly wailed.

“No one is,” Lily assured her, conjuring up a handkerchief. “It all just depends on who has the most practice faking.”

=====

When the two girls began to walk down the stairs from the girls’ dormitories into the common room, they found James Potter at the very bottom with Peter, Sirius, and Remus looking on in amusement.

“James Potter, if you even _think_ of activating these stairs,” Lily said in a severe tone. Hermione had to laugh, she’d never even thought of using them as a prank on girls walking _down_ the stairs, just as a preventative measure for boys walking _up_ them.

“I wouldn’t _dream_ of it,” James said, showing the lie as he reached up for the jacket in his girlfriend’s hand. “Can I take that for you?” He made as if to step forward.

“I wouldn’t, Potter—I’m unpredictable and I’ve got a wand,” Hermione said, retrieving said object and pointing it at him.

“You’re outnumbered, James—I’d back away,” Remus observed.

“What about you lot?” his friend protested, throwing up his hands in mock disgust. “Good for nothings.” Both Lily and Hermione patted him comfortingly on the shoulder as they passed him on the landing.

“Are you feeling better?” Peter asked Hermione quietly as she sat down.

“Much, thanks,” she replied in a low voice. “I think Malfoy was using the Imperious on me yesterday—go get him!” Hermione said this loudly to the others in a joking voice, emphasizing her words with shoo-ing motions to encourage them to exact their revenge.

“Not _all_ of yesterday, I hope,” Sirius said dryly, initiating a deep blush in Hermione. Then, she remembered something important.

“Sirius, I have a confession to make,” she said, doing her best not to feel guilty at the guarded look he displayed the second she’d spoken the words. “Before I came to Hogwarts, I—”

“Lived among Muggle hippies in a naked commune?” suggested James archly.

“…I just pictured that,” Sirius said, closing his eyes. Hermione blushed deep scarlet as the rest of their friends made shocked noises.

“— _read everything I could about the school and the surrounding area_!” Hermione finished, her tone slightly squeaky with embarrassment.

“So?” Remus said, the tone in which he spoke the single word speaking volumes of what they all knew about her way of doing things.

“So, Sirius asked me not to do that so he could show me around today,” Lily let out a pleased ‘oh!’ at this statement, clearly happy that the Hogsmeade date was still on. “—but I couldn’t promise _not_ to because I had done it already.”

“It’s all right,” Sirius assured her.

“It’s just that I didn’t want to spend the whole day faking interest—”

“He’s used to that,” James cut in roguishly.

“—as if I’d never heard the information before,” Hermione completed the statement determinedly, glaring at Potter.

“Give up, dear,” Lily advised. “They hop in at every breath as if it’s a sign of weakness.”

“Short and sweet’s your best bet,” Remus agreed.

“I used to think so,” James declared, moving behind Lily and hugging her so tightly he lifted her feet from the ground—clearly implying that she was neither short, nor sweet.

“I’m good at short and sweet _goodbyes_ ,” Lily threatened, poised to elbow her boyfriend in the kidney.

“Shall we…adjourn to breakfast?” Remus said tactfully, earning himself a thankful look from James. On the way to breakfast Hermione asked questions about Hogsmeade, missing Lupin’s questioning look after one of her comments, as she was walking in front of him.

=====

Sirius thought with no small irony that today he was having a _much_ better day than the day before. He had known that Hermia cared for him, although the knowledge had been sorely tested throughout the day on Friday. She was scared—and he didn’t blame her. The feelings he had for her were quickly traveling beyond the realm of attraction into caring for her, wanting to protect her, and being proud of her accomplishments. When Sirius was honest about it, he admitted that he was a little overwhelmed, himself.

Something was clearly frightening her, and he knew it was more than the idea of a relationship—even though she was new to the world of boarding school, her reaction had been far stronger than simply an acclimatization problem. The night before—Sirius had to clench his fist to quell the tingling memory of the way her hair had felt against his palm—she had been skittish, as though she hadn’t quite convinced herself that running away was the best idea. He’d done his best to convince her it wasn’t, but he knew she needed more than that. She hadn’t let him ask her much about it then, and they’d both had other things on their minds at that point, but whatever she feared—he now considered his duty to discover and eradicate. 

He told himself he would do the same for any of his friends.

“Sirius?” Remus had dropped back to speak to him; Hermia and Lily were almost to the stairs. The sight of her smiling and laughing again made his chest feel warm and tight.

“Yes, love?” he asked, expansively affectionate in his happiness.

“Is everything all right?” Lupin asked, for once not picking up his verbal cues. Sirius knew that meant Remus had something important to speak to him about.

“Yes—I haven’t quite gotten from her what was wrong, but she seems a lot better, now,” he said, slowing even further as he watched the top of her head descend out of his line of sight.

“I’ve been meaning to tell you—I think there’s something more to her than she’s telling us,” Remus said cautiously. Sirius’ chest tightened even more, this time with a sense of danger that wasn’t entirely about protecting Hermia.

“You’re my friend, Moony,” he said, a hint of both anger and jest in his voice. “So rather than clubbing you in the head and burying your body underneath the Whomping Willow, I’ll listen to what you have to say.”

“Glad to hear it—and the club wouldn’t work, anyway,” the werewolf replied with a grin. Sirius smiled despite himself—Remus did have a point, there.

“Go on,” he said, leaning against the wall between two stationary suits of armor.

“I certainly don’t believe it’s anything sinister about _her_ ,” Remus began, “but her explanation as to why she’s missed so many years of school and her claim to be Muggle-born just doesn’t wash.” Sirius nodded slowly—his friend had a point, albeit a disturbing one. “The questions she was asking just now about Hogsmeade—” Lupin looked uncomfortable and lowered his voice a little. “Well, they just don’t seem…some of what she asked about you’d only _know_ if you’ve spent time here. I just don’t see a Muggle family allowing their only daughter to travel to a place like Hogsmeade for an outing when they disallowed her from attending the school.”

“And since when are magical tutors allowed to practice in the midst of a Muggle neighborhood,” Sirius added thoughtfully.

“Exactly. Her manner of speech and behavior speaks of long-term time spent in _our_ world.”

“So, which are the untruths,” Sirius mused.

“Well, I see no reason for her to lie about not coming from a magical family,” Remus said, gesturing that the two of them should resume their walk to the Great Hall. “Even if it _would_ be a delightful way to upset the Slytherins.”

“I’ll see what I can get from her,” Sirius promised.

“As long as it comes from a place of wanting to know in order to protect her,” Remus warned. “We’re her friends, not a group of—”

“Don’t worry, Remus,” Sirius said, secretly delighted that his friend felt some of the same protectiveness he did. “We’ll get to the bottom of this.”

=====

There was a light rain as they trekked to Hogsmeade, the kind of rain that umbrellas were useless against; the air seemed to be saturated with moisture that clung to whatever surface was exposed to the outside. Once they reached the city proper, Peter and Remus peeled off to visit the quill shop, neither bothering to speed up their pace to avoid the weather, as they were all soaked already.

“So, James,” Hermione asked innocently, “will you and Lily be taking tea at Madam Puddifoot's today?” James made a face, as did Lily.

“I wouldn’t be caught dead in that place,” James said with great spirit, causing Hermione to choke with laughter and attempt to play it off as though she were really choking. _Poor Harry_ , she thought. _Do I dare tell him?_ She remembered his disgusted description of the teashop’s décor during the Valentine’s holiday.

“There’s only one place to go during weather like this,” Sirius asserted, pulling them all in the direction of the Three Broomsticks.

“Have you ever had butterbeer, Hermia?” Lily asked gaily as they entered the brightly lit establishment. Hermione paused—she couldn’t remember for the life of her if she’d ever had a butterbeer on a visit to Diagon Alley, and clearly if this were her first year at Hogwarts she wouldn’t have ever been here before.

“I don’t remember,” she said finally, not quite satisfied with her answer but having none other to give. Her heart sank as she saw Sirius’ brows furrow at her response, and she added quickly, “There’s always a first for everything!”

As they settled in a small corner, Sirius began to argue amiably with James and Lily over a detention the two boys had received the year before. Halfway through an account of his part in their scheme, Sirius reached over and touched her hand under the table. He started to move his hand away, but Hermione sent up an apology to whatever powers may be and caught his hand in hers.

Sirius promptly stuttered and seemed to forget where he was in the story.

Hermione started to pull away; she’d been enjoying the experience of simply watching the three of them interact, but the strong-willed Black simply leaned over as if to retrieve something on the floor—and when he sat back up, he clasped her tiny hand in both of his.

“I could hex you, you know,” she whispered to him as James took up his part of the story.

“You could—but you won’t,” he replied, squeezing her hand gently.

She supposed that she should be paying attention to the narrative, but instead her traitorous mind reminded her of the high-minded promises she’d made in her journal on Thursday night. The truth was, she realized as the warmth from their joined hands spread up her arms and across her body, it was all well and good to decide not to give your heart away when writing in a journal—but life and love had minds of their own.

_I’m just a teenaged witch who’s in way over her head_ , she told herself insistently. All the disapproving voice in her head would do was remind her of the gravity of her situation and the accountability she had to the correct timeline. Hermione couldn’t help but think that while she respected the fact that she shared some responsibility for her arrival in this time period, the mere fact that she existed here had already changed things. Though she had absolutely no intention of deliberately altering the future, she would be damned if she was going to allow someone amazing like Sirius to go without a little bit of sunshine in his life before the years of darkness.

_Just a little bit of love!_ she begged no one in particular.

_LOVE!_ scoffed her inner voice. _Yesterday it was ‘affection.’_

_Did I mention I’m in over my head?_ Hermione said in a small voice, wondering if her inner dialogue was apparent on her face.

_You had better find some way to end this before_ —Hermione stopped that thought dead in its tracks. 

_I’ve made my decision_ , she stated firmly. She was going to make her point, whether it was to her Inner Voice or not.

_It’s your broken heart_ , came the response, followed painfully by, _and his, as well._

“How do you like it?” Sirius asked her, referring to the butterbeer that he’d just handed her. “Worth the trip out here in the rain?”

Hermione took a sip as she looked at his familiar yet different face, knowing the terrible consequences of the decision to open her heart to someone she’d only get to love for a few short months of her life.

“Yes,” she said, knowing he wouldn’t understand her double meaning. “It’s worth it.”


	25. Beware the Grey Ones

  
Heart beats fast, colors  
And promises, how to be brave  
How can I love when I'm afraid to fall?  
But watching you stand alone  
All of my doubt suddenly goes away somehow  
One step closer  
 _A Thousand Years_ , Christina Perri

 

A few minutes later, Pettigrew and Lupin came through the door of the pub looking thoroughly soaked. Hermione and the others hastily made room as James signaled to Madam Rosmerta that they needed two more drinks. The luncheon crowd had started to fill the tavern, so when the drinks arrived, there weren’t given much time to examine them before the pretty proprietor moved on to the next table.

“Oh, James— _gillywater_?” Remus looked at the glass in front of him in disgust.

“Oh, I _like_ gillywater,” Lily said, looking up from the barely touched tankard of butterbeer in front of her. “I’d trade you, but I’ve already taken a sip from this one,” she started to say.

“Oh, I can help with that,” Hermione offered. She’d been _dying_ to display her knowledge of the correct spell ever since she’d used it to foil Sirius’ potion prank the week before. “ _Transfunde te ipsum_!” Instantly, the contents of Lupin and Evans’ glasses were transferred, one to the other.

“I _knew_ it!” Sirius released her hand and had almost gotten to his feet in his agitation over her tacit confession of responsibility for spoiling his practical joke in class.

“What just happened?” Peter asked, having lifted his mug of butterbeer from the table to protect it.

“Sirius is pleased that he knows one of the same spells that Hermia does?” James guessed, winking at Hermione.

“She learned it from _me_ , actually,” Black said, settling back down and staring at her with a mixture of admiration and vexation. “She messed up my plans for Snivellous in Potions.”

“ _You_ were trying to get me to drink Snape’s potion,” Hermione accused, pointing at him with a shaking finger.

“You didn’t switch people’s potions around, did you?” Lily asked in a shocked tone. “That’s their _grade_ —”

“The graded portion was taken from the cauldrons, remember?” Remus spoke up, trying to calm her down.

“By the way,” Sirius said, looking at Hermione speculatively, “whose potion did you get, in the end?” She could see straight through his forced nonchalance, however.

“You know which one I had at my desk, Sirius, I just didn’t drink it—at the time.” Hermione finished off her drink and stood, leaning over to kiss his forehead as an emphasis to her words. “Now, will you show me the rest of Hogsmeade?” she asked, trying to approximate the behavior of someone under the influence of a love potion.

Most of the table looked slightly baffled as to her behavior, but Lupin burst out laughing, having seen the bright red potion at her table and knowing to whom it belonged.

“Great,” Sirius said with deep sarcasm as he stood up and took her proffered hand. “Now I’m going to spend the rest of the day wondering when it’ll wear off.”

=====

Hogsmeade was an entirely new place for Hermione when escorted through it by Sirius. The familiar places she thought she’d known so well had a fresh new energy to them that she didn’t think was entirely a result of the earlier time. If anything, Hogsmeade of 1977 should have been far more subdued than in 1993 when she’d first been able to come here, since the threat from Voldemort’s supporters was still in full force here. Hermione wondered if there had been many meetings of the newly-created Order of the Phoenix; if Neville’s parents were married yet; wondering most of all what kind of stress Molly Weasley was dealing with—pregnant with twins and still dealing with a new baby and two toddlers.

Thinking of Neville brought the implications of time travel back to her mind. She remembered that it had been the Lestranges and Bartemius Crouch, Jr. that had tortured his parents so cruelly—but that terrible action had also sent them to Azkaban. Unraveling the cause and effect nature of time was incredibly difficult, but the more she examined the relationships between events, the more she realized that good things often came out of the bad ones. Even the most terrible event she could think of—the death of Harry’s parents—had resulted in a thirteen-year reprieve from the evil intentions of Lord Voldemort and his Death Eaters.

While it was easy to contemplate such things as time travel causality and Voldemort’s temporary defeat when she and Sirius were traveling through the misty rain outdoors, it was entirely impossible to do so whilst standing in Honeydukes. Her spirits lifted the second they walked through the door, and she released Sirius’ hand to move past him to a display of sugar quills. These were very different from the ones in her time—rather than the entire quill being composed of caramelized sugar, the lower half was actually a fully functional quill. Hermione didn’t even hear the door’s cheerful chime that denoted another customer, she was so captivated.

“Trust her to find the only remotely school-related item in a building full of sweets,” laughed Remus, who had just joined them.

“I seem to recall there being at least two of these in a compartment in your trunk,” Sirius commented with a broad smile.

“You’d still _have_ yours if you hadn’t tried to use them on your Transfiguration final last year,” his friend shot back. Hermione was oblivious.

“This is such a great idea,” she said enthusiastically, lifting one and testing the weight. “I wonder why they don’t still have these in my—” Hermione broke off, doing her best not to let it show on her face how close she’d come to saying ‘my time.’ The look her two escorts threw at each other was over her head.

“I doubt they’re a typical product in a Muggle stationary store,” Remus said blandly.

“You’re right, of course,” she said quickly, deciding to free her hair from its hasty ponytail in order to allow it to dry, the heavy curls an added layer of protection from her embarrassment.

Hermione was glad that Dumbledore had slipped her a couple of galleons before they’d left; he’d assured her that it was no trouble, and that she should be able to enjoy herself without worry that day. As she paid for her two quills, Sirius looked around as though he’d lost something.

“Where’s Peter?”

“Says he’s on a diet,” Remus said in a slightly hollow voice, as he was sucking on what was left of a chocolate frog.

“Nutter,” Sirius said, shaking his head sadly. “What say we buy him a huge bag of Bertie Bott’s? He loves those,” he suggested with a mischievous look in his eye.

“I’d chip in for that,” Hermione said, nearly beside herself at the idea of this group of people in particular and what reactions they’d all have to the various flavors. Sirius ended up buying a full pound, half for Peter and half for the rest of them to share. Hermione was glad that it was standard practice not to allow customers to pick the jelly beans themselves, even when she spied one particular piece of the candy whose coloring resembled motor oil—complete with the rainbow iridescence that was so easily recognizable.

The weather had cleared up considerably when the threesome left the candy store; the visibility was up enough that she could see the faint outline of the Shrieking Shack on the far horizon. Hermione wondered briefly what the local residents thought of the dilapidated building—in her time, the place had already developed a reputation of having been haunted, though the horrible sounds of Lupin in the throes of his transformation had ceased twenty years before. In this time, however, they were likely still going on (and Hermione firmly did not allow herself to think about the pain her friend went through that caused those fearful sounds); she wondered what their reaction was. 

She didn’t have too long to wait, however.

Hermione, Remus, and Sirius stopped outside of Honeydukes for a moment, deciding to wait for James and Lily to catch up to them. Remus had spotted the pair as they exited the joke shop and had waved them over, lifting the sack of jellybeans as an added incentive. Just as their two friends reached their location, Ambrosius Flume came outside with slight scowl on his face, excusing himself as he brushed past them. The light wind had lifted a fair number of wet leaves onto his sparkling front windows, and the owner of the sweetshop clearly liked to keep his establishment as tidy and eye-catching as possible. Mr. Flume seemed to be used to knots of students congregating outside of his store; he smiled and nodded at them as he cast a quick spell repeatedly to clear the windows of any obstruction.

Hermione and Lily busied themselves by trying out some of the Bertie Bott’s Every Flavour Beans—the three boys were engaged in an argument as to where the group should head to, next.

“Ohhh,” Hermione sighed contentedly. “Blackberry!”

“You’re lucky wizardkind has no version of toilet-bowl cleaner,” Lily told her. Hermione made a face.

“They _wouldn’t_!” she said, eyeing the bagful of jellybeans that remained.

“It would just taste like it—non-toxic,” the other girl assured her.

“Not much of a difference, there,” Hermione shuddered. “Oh!” she said then, the removal of the leaves having revealed a display in the lower right-hand corner of the window. It was, inevitably, a book on magical candy and sweets, claiming to catalogue the lives of famous candymakers and describing all of the known magical varieties existing in the wizarding world.

“You must be new,” Ambrosius Flume told her bluntly. “That display has been up for ten years and you’re the first person I’ve seen to get excited over it.”

“Oh—but I’ve never seen—” Hermione was about to state that she’d never seen the display before, but realized that if she were the first person to show any interest, after thirty years he’d probably just given up. “—anything like it,” she amended, hoping it sounded believable.

“Don’t mind our Hermia,” Sirius said, making her feel a quick rush of delight at his phrasing, “she will jump to the moon over anything book-related.” The candymaker’s eyes twinkled at this, and he winked at her.

“Then you _must_ be new, there hasn’t been anyone like that here in years,” he declared, suddenly sobering as he looked down the street in the direction of the Shrieking Shack. “Speaking of moons—don’t let this new one go anywhere near that old building up there during the full moon. Seems to me that the ghost living in that place is especially angry, that time of the month.” His words sent an icy chill across Hermione’s spine, and she knew without looking that the others would be having a similar reaction. 

“I’m sure there’s a logical explanation,” Hermione said, realizing after she spoke that it was a very Muggle way of looking at the situation. 

“The only thing my logic tells me is to stay away from that place,” Flume told her seriously. “But I don’t mean to spoil your outing—if you are actually interested in that book, missy, I’ll give you a discount on it.” With that, the older man took a last look at his once-again sparkling front display window and walked back into his shop.

Hermione didn’t want to keep the subject of the Shack fresh in everyone’s minds, knowing that it could at worst make everyone worry about a local retaliation or investigation into the odd noises there, and at best make them quite uncomfortable considering she wasn’t in on their little secret.

“Anyone for a jellybean? I’ve just finished a blackberry,” she said, holding up the bag of sweets.

=====

Remus was grateful for the subject change, but something about it struck him as very unnatural. Hermia James was about as inquisitive a person as he’d ever met in his life, yet instead of asking all manner of questions about the encounter they’d all just had with the owner of Honeydukes, she’d offered them candy. Could Dumbledore have informed she or her parents of exactly who and what he was? It would explain their reticence in sending her to school—but she had claimed to be Muggle-born anyway. No educator as smart as Albus Dumbledore would go around telling potential students’ parents their children would be attending school with werewolves as a measure of persuasion.

He felt sure he was correct in his earlier assumption—Hermia James was certainly not a product of an entirely Muggle upbringing. He was even willing to bet that she’d attended a boarding school before; she seemed already to have acclimatized herself to the lifestyle with little to no homesickness, difficulty with classes, or even trouble finding her way around. He hadn’t read _Hogwarts, a History_ from front to back, but Remus was fairly sure it hadn’t included floor plans—the only way to know one’s way around Hogwarts was good old-fashioned practice.

Yet in three weeks, she seemed to find her way through the castle and grounds almost as well as he did.

Remus felt slightly guilty for his conjecture. Hermia James seemed to be a genuinely kind, intelligent—and most importantly, a _fun_ person to have around, and it felt a lot like a betrayal of her trust to spend time speculating on which parts of her story were truth or falsehood. The thing of it was, the sense he’d gotten from her during the week of his transformation had felt as though her secretiveness was, to her, a necessity. The undercurrent of almost all of her emotions was a fear that he wasn’t even sure she realized she felt; very similar to the attraction he’d sensed from Lily in regards to James for almost two months before she’d finally became aware of it herself.

Lupin resolved to examine his memories more closely when they returned to the castle. He had what he would have termed a ‘photographic sense memory,’ in that he could recall impressions he’d gotten from people or things long after the moon had begun to wane.

“—your turn, Moony,” Sirius was saying, holding the sack of Every Flavour Beans for him to choose. He looked up to find that during his introspection, he’d followed his friends to a picnic table that one them of had dried off with a spell.

“Well what’s our track record, I wasn’t paying attention,” he said with lighthearted hesitation. Lily had a look of puzzlement on her face as though she wasn’t quite sure what her current bean was; James definitely knew, and hated it; and Sirius’ was likely sour citrus, as his face had puckered up dangerously.

“Just pick one, you big sissy!” 

_Definitely citrus_ , Remus thought with amusement at his friend’s grumpy expression. He looked at the bag doubtfully and stuck a hand in to pick one.

“No peeking,” Black threatened.

“You look like you need another one, Sirius—was it lemon or grapefruit?” All the werewolf got in response was a grunt.

“What’s this?” Hermia asked, her eyes lighting up in interest.

“Moony, pick a jellybean or I’ll pick out a grey one for you.” Sirius scowled at him with such intensity that Hermia stood up and went to him. Remus thought that his friend’s inability to remain upset when the girl he fancied touched him was incredibly sweet.

“You’d better pick one, I can’t think of a good flavour that’s grey,” James said, making a face.

“Fine, I’ll take one—though I was rather enjoying the suspense,” he said, dipping his hand in and retrieving an odd-looking white piece with butter-yellow spots on it. “Any guesses?”

“Chum,” James suggested evilly.

“Popcorn?” Lily was more optimistic. Remus popped the bean into his mouth, biting down to taste a sour, starchy flavor.

“Bad?” Hermia asked, taking her cue from the look on his face.

“Raw squash,” Remus said. Everyone shuddered.

=====

The time had come for the students to return to Hogwarts. As they all started to sift back toward the road leading past the Quidditch Pitch and across the ravine to the school, Hermione allowed herself to simply enjoy the walk and the company. Usually by this time she was busy mediating between Ron and Harry over something, possibly with Ginny at her side or Lavender Brown tagging along after Ron. She found that she very much missed her friends, but her forced time away from them had also given her some perspective.

Her friendship with Harry and Ron in particular had been built on the grounds of…not as much of _equals_ but more of a partnership. She thought there was a very fine distinction to this; ‘her boys’ thought of her as their guardian angel, and while she very much enjoyed their regard, she found that she was feeling quite liberated by her friendship with Lily and the Marauders. None of them had known her as the impatient, bossy child she now thought of her previous self, and it made her feel comfortable around them.

Where Ron usually waited until she ordered him to go to bed, or do his homework, Remus or James asked her opinion on things, or jested with her about obscure Transfiguration theory.

Hermione felt horrible all of a sudden. It was incredibly unfair of her to compare the behavior of people who had never known her as anything other than a relatively confident, intelligent young woman, with Harry or Ron who had known her since she was eleven. _Of course_ they were going to treat her differently—they were different people, and had a different first impression of her.

Hermione realized something else, as well. If she was unhappy with her position among her friends in her own time, it was up to her to change that. Whinging about it to herself when she wasn’t in a position to do anything about it at present was a very silly thing to do.

Peter caught up with the rest of them just as they were crossing the bridge over the ravine. He seemed slightly upset at something, but Hermione missed the others’ questioning him about it as they passed Snape in the narrow space of the bridge. Her cheeks flushed and she raised her chin defiantly as the black-clad boy raised an expressive eyebrow at hers and Sirius’ joined hands. She could practically _feel_ his disapproval, but as their lively group passed the solitary Slytherin, she denied herself the need to turn and look at him.

Hermione told herself she didn’t care what Severus Snape thought of her, in this time or her own.


	26. —But Who’s Keeping Score?

  
Time’s glory is to command contending kings,  
To unmask falsehood, and bring truth to light.  
- _William Shakespeare_

 

Hermione sat in the library, barely visible through the stacks of books that surrounded her at her small table in the corner. She felt slightly guilty for appropriating the space from whoever had sat there the previous year, but she had been so delighted to find it empty for her first few visits to the library that she couldn’t help but take her favorite spot. Today she was catching up on what she would term ‘side reading’ and the others of her acquaintance would call ‘over-researching.’ Hermione had protested that the word didn’t even exist—and she knew just where to find all of the dictionaries to prove it—but Lily had simply waved it off by telling her she should be proud to be the impetus for creating a new word.

Hermione hadn’t been able to decide whether she should laugh at the redhead’s statement or feel slightly hurt that Lily hadn’t taken her side, for once.

Hermione reminded herself that there were some very good reasons for her to be in the library, and none of them included thinking too much about her predicament, her emotions, or her friends. She was most certainly not here to avoid her future professor (even though she’d caught herself staring longingly out to the grounds, trying to spot her favorite tree. The weather this year was surprisingly mild for the north of Scotland, and she steadfastly ignored the voice that told her she should be taking advantage of it as much as she could), nor was she here to avoid Sirius.

She didn’t have any particular _reason_ to avoid Sirius other than the fact that she couldn’t _think_ clearly when he was around, and Sundays were always her study day. Hermione had to laugh: the first time Ron had heard that, his reaction had been priceless—doubly so as she’d asked him when _his_ last study day had been. Harry had responded with, ‘sometime in the 80’s, when he was studying Fred and George’s strategy for stealing cookies from the kitchen.’ The memory was a strong one, and she laughed despite herself, hoping she hadn’t disturbed anyone nearby.

Hermione took great comfort from the fact that—presumably—when she returned, her friends would be exactly as they had been when she’d left them.

“I thought I might find you here.” Remus Lupin had walked over so quietly that she hadn’t heard his approach.

“Hello, Remus,” Hermione said with genuine pleasure. “You were looking for me?”

“Actually, Lily was—and I needed to return this, so…” Lupin settled himself on the windowsill behind her, holding up a magazine that looked to be the wizard’s equivalent to a Muggle science theory publication. She didn’t get a long enough look to read any of the cover stories, however.

“Having trouble with your ink?” Remus asked pleasantly, pointing to the blotted section after her first name on a few of the sheets of parchment in front of her. Hermione groaned inwardly—it was such a habit to write out ‘Hermione’ instead of ‘Hermia’ that she nearly always had to scratch out the last bits to salvage her alias. Hermione was sure she could come up with a rational explanation for the repeated mistakes but…she _really_ didn’t want to lie to Remus.

“I…” she stopped, looking at his face, noting that the curiosity there had no animosity or suspicion in it whatsoever. How _much_ she wanted to preserve that! “Honestly, it’s stupid of me,” she started again, knowing there was no lie in that. “My grandmother never quite liked my first name—” _so far, so good_ , “—so I got into the habit of putting my middle name down, when I signed anything. It seems sort of a waste, here, so…” Hermione trailed off, hoping her half-apologetic, self-mocking tone had done the trick. It appeared that it had.

“Oh, what’s your middle name?” Remus asked politely.

“It’s Jane.” Hermione frowned slightly. “Why she would like ‘Jane’ better than ‘Hermia,’ I don’t think I’ll ever know.” They both laughed lightly, and Hermione remembered why he’d come over to her in the first place. “So, do you know what Lily needs? It’ll take me at least a half hour to put these all back.”

“Not a clue,” he replied in a slightly regretful tone.

“Remind me not to use _you_ as an errand-boy,” she teased. As Lupin turned to walk away, her curiosity got the better of her—she really wanted to know what he’d been reading about. “Remus?” she called out in a stage whisper. He turned back to her immediately. “Want me to put that away for you, too?” Hermione pointed to the magazine. The werewolf’s face broke into a broad grin and he stepped back to her, handing her the magazine with a flourish.

“I’d be very grateful,” he said thankfully, “I can never put these back in the right place.”

After her friend had left the library, Hermione settled back in her seat and placed the magazine in front of her. It appeared to be a monthly journal by the name of ‘ _Wand and Pestle_ ,’ which she thought was a delightful name for the mixture of science and magic. The cover story was about what was termed as ‘a new generation of thinkers,’ and the graphic showed a grey-haired man holding some odd-looking contraption. Even though he was undoubtedly working it for the camera to display the use, she couldn’t make heads or tails of it. Hermione allowed herself a slight snicker at the wizarding version of a ‘new generation,’ complete with graying hair and wrinkles.

In a smaller font to the side, there was a listing of the other featured witches and wizards, one of whom Hermione recognized as an inventor of a wildly popular beauty charm. That product had been released in the late 80’s, and suddenly Hermione understood that this article in particular must be following the efforts of _potential_ inventors.

She finally understood Lupin’s interest in the magazine when she flipped to the article itself and saw a small section entitled, ‘ _Beware werewolves no longer?_ ’ with a picture of a wild-haired man whose caption titled him Damocles Belby. Hermione felt her arms, she’d just gotten goosebumps— _this_ was the future inventor of the Wolfsbane Potion! She scanned through the article hastily, noting that Belby had been reluctant to appear in the feature story due to how much work he had yet to do on the potion.

Hermione wondered if the man realized that the simple knowledge of what he was working on was probably giving hope to hundreds of afflicted people all over the country. On impulse, she picked up the magazine and hugged it to her chest, wishing she could do the same to Remus; she wanted to share in the optimism he no doubt felt after reading what she’d just read. Hermione was going to pack up her things and rush back to the Gryffindor common room, but she forced herself to take her time.

She wanted to give Remus enough time to tell their friends before she showed up, as she wasn’t in on the secret. Yet.

=====

A full twenty minutes later, Hermione finally had replaced all of the books she’d taken for her study day. The librarian had clucked her tongue and told her kindly that she didn’t have to go to all that trouble, but Hermione always took so many different volumes from the shelves that she felt a responsibility to replace them—besides the fact that she actually knew or remembered where they all went, unlike many of the students that visited the library.

Hermione’s chosen path to return to Gryffindor took her past the massive front doors, through which a sour-faced Snape was walking, a bag of books in his hand and his hideous blanket over one arm. Hermione decided to be nice to him—it seemed like the meanest thing to do at the time.

“It’s a lovely day to study outside, I’m sure you got a lot done,” she said to him with a bright smile. Hermione recognized the look he gave her at that, she’d seen it in his classroom enough times. It could best be described as ‘what on _earth_ is this young woman trying to say to me?’

“It was indeed, though I don’t believe I wish to know how _you_ spent your time,” Severus said, after he’d collected himself. Hermione was confused until he deigned to elaborate. “I must say I’m disappointed in you—I had thought you had more sense than to attach yourself to the nearest example of masculinity.” The words seemed almost torn from his lips, as though he’d been so bothered by what he’d seen the night before that he couldn’t prevent himself from giving her that piece of his mind. Hermione’s first instinct was to embark on a verbal ‘scorched earth’ campaign, but she stopped herself. His very concern, no matter how strongly or offensively worded, implied that he cared about her in some small way.

Hermione knew that when she went back to her own time, this man would still be there, as alone and misunderstood as he’d been when she left.

“If I had done _that_ , it would have been _you_ I’d have been holding hands with last night,” she said, knowing that this would probably give her future professor an aneurysm. 

Snape actually spluttered with indignation for a minute.

“Don’t be foolish,” he said finally, the weak response being the best he could come up with at the moment.

“Well,” she argued reasonably, “you _were_ the first ‘example of masculinity’ that I spoke to—”

“I—” Severus simply stared at her for a long moment, and then turned on his heel and stalked away from her, muttering.

_Snape, 0; Hermione, 1_ , she exulted.

=====

When Hermione reached the painting of the Fat Lady, the Gryffindor guardian was having tea with one of the adjoining portrait subjects. Hermione didn’t wish to disturb their conversation (something that she would have thought completely mad, her first year), but the Fat Lady’s violet-clad companion noticed her and nudged her friend.

“Oh, hello dear—did I ever apologize for holding you up that first night?” Hermione shook her head, starting to say that it didn’t matter, but the boisterous painted lady interrupted her. “Eunice, you’ll never believe it—this nice young girl was sorted to the wrong house at first! And of course it was _Slytherin_ , which as you know the Gryffindors aren’t at all friendly with.” 

The other portrait gasped and looked at Hermione sympathetically. Just as she started to speak the password for entry, however, the Fat Lady picked her story back up again.

“Well of course I didn’t want to let her in, as she’d just asked a student in the hallway what the password was—I saw you, dear; it’s all right though, you had to get it from somebody—and who _knows_ what she might have been planning! Not that you _look_ like someone who—” By this time it was clear to Hermione that the ebullient woman would continue her story for as long as she had the strength (and since she was a portrait in the first place, it wasn’t as if she could get tired). Rather than waiting for a second student to appear to try to gain entry, possibly being drawn into the story as well, Hermione cleared her throat politely.

“I’m so sorry to interrupt, madam,” she said apologetically, “but I confess that this bag is rather heavy, and I’d like to go inside so I can put my school books away.”

“Oh! Of course, dear.” 

Hermione said the password quickly, and the portrait-hole was revealed without any further delay. She shook her head—she would never understand that woman.

=====

Sirius had thought he was beginning to control the little leap of his heart every time Hermia came into the room—but he was proved wrong, every time. She looked fairly exasperated tonight, but since he’d come up to the tower earlier that evening and seen that the Fat Lady had company, he wasn’t too concerned that she could be upset with him.

“Hello there,” Hermia said amiably, setting her heavy bag down and massaging her shoulder with one hand. Sirius was sitting with Remus; the motorcycle catalogue had arrived at breakfast, and though his friend disapproved of what he and James had planned, Remus did find the idea intellectually stimulating. The two of them were working out some of the dynamics when Hermia had walked in.

She bestowed on him a smile that made him feel very warm as well as fill him with a desire to punch the lights out of any other man she smiled like that to. Then she turned to Remus.

“That magazine you were reading was fascinating,” she gushed. “I think the idea of encouraging new research is so important, don’t you?”

Sirius had felt his friend tense up when Hermia mentioned the magazine, and wondered what was going on. Remus hadn’t said anything about seeing Hermia earlier in the day, although he did admit that Lupin was a relatively private person, even with his closest friends. He resolved to ask the other boy about it when they turned in for the night.

“Oh, I agree,” Remus said. While he was very good at disguising his discomfort, Sirius could still tell that something was bothering him, and so he clumsily knocked the parts catalogue from Lupin’s lap as a diversion.

“Oh, what are you two up to?” Hermia said, sitting down on the edge of the small armchair she’d claimed as her spot. When Sirius held up the catalogue for her to see, he missed the momentary look of understanding in her eyes, but Lupin did not. Before he could come up with a suitable reason that he would have a motorcycle parts catalogue in his possession, Lily popped her head in and she and Hermione moved off in the direction of the Head Girl’s room.

=====

After a long and stimulating chat about subjects as varied as Arithmancy, House Elves, Defense Against the Dark Arts, and sugar quills, during which various members of their cadre of friends joined and left for bed, Remus was the only one left in the common room. He thought about the conversation he’d had with Sirius about Hermia, and the specific incidents over the past week or so that had sent up red flags in his mind.

Lupin had to remind himself that he was doing this out of concern—his parents had drilled into him the importance of treating others fairly—and above all, as _he_ wished to be treated.

The last thing he wanted was for her to be doing the same thing, ferreting out the evidence of his affliction…Remus sat back, closing his eyes against the yellow lights illuminating the room, yet still seeing their glow against his eyelids. The thing of it was, from what he’d seen of Hermia so far, he thought she might not have the horrified reaction he always had nightmares about. It had been a recurring dream of his for many years, becoming friends with someone only to have the friendship dashed to pieces when he made known that he was a werewolf. Remus pushed the thought away, wanting to focus on his theories about Hermia.

He shut his eyes tighter, looking past the swirling patterns the pressure built, trying to make connections and correlations, searching for a clue. An image of the girl sitting surrounded by books in the library came to him, the desk littered with parchment…

Remus sat up. Her blotted signature.

Hermia had seemed embarrassed about it—not the reaction of someone who typically signed their name that way. It was as if she were used to signing something else…and he knew of a roundabout way to check her name, because she was on Hogwarts’ grounds. There wouldn’t even be an issue of his using the map—not only did it belong to all four of the Marauders, but he’d been using it last—it was hidden in his trunk—and he wouldn’t even have to wake anyone up to get it.

A few short minutes later, Lupin was crouched beside his trunk, the dim light from his wand tip illuminating a folded and well-worn piece of parchment.

“I solemnly swear that I am up to no good,” Remus chanted in a low voice, the irony of the statement not lost on him.

“That’s for sure,” he heard James’ voice proclaim from his bed nearby. “Naughty Prefect,” he said, squinting blearily at Lupin, clearly only barely awake.

“Go back to sleep, James.” Remus had to stifle a laugh at the hopeless mess of Potter’s hair. “I’m just a dream, come to steal your Invisibility Cloak again,” he said comfortingly.

“I knew it,” the half-asleep boy mumbled. “Git.”

Lupin waited until his friend’s peaceful snores told him that he had no audience. He carefully peeled the Marauder’s Map open, not surprised to see the footsteps of Professor Dumbledore pacing in his study. Creeping over to sit on the edge of his bed, Remus kept unwrapping the many layers of the magical map until he saw the familiar names and the shape of the Gryffindor tower. The map itself was dusty, as it often lived under a corner of James’ trunk or hidden in a floorboard near Sirius’ bed. He felt the compulsion to sneeze, and dropped the parchment rather than risk tearing it from a sudden violent movement. When he had recovered from the sneeze—which, strangely, hadn’t woken anyone up—Remus looked down at his feet to see the names listed in a corner of the tower, the room across the tower from where he sat.

Among the familiar names of Fiona McCready, Steffie Kirke, and Juli Warbeck was the name _Hermione Granger._


	27. The Map Never Lies -- Part I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Something extraordinary happened last night--a lovely reader posted her excitement about my writing on this story again after 8 years on Twitter, and as of this morning, it's got 50,000+ likes and 10k retweets! If you're interested in reading the string of responses, feel free to google my username on Twitter, it'll be there. 
> 
> I AM ON CLOUD NINE RIGHT NOW.
> 
> So, you all get two chapters today first thing in the morning for me, because I'm super pleased, AND because this chapter in particular is one of my very, very favorites. Format is the letters sent back and forth between Remus and Hermione are all included here, then Parts II and III will detail the events that happen between.
> 
> I wish I could have a 'who can send a shorter letter' battle with Remus, too! Enjoy!

  
There are times when I think I’ve found the truth  
There are times when I know that I’m wrong  
And the days when I try to hide my fears—  
Bless the days when I’m feeling strong  
Bless the days when I’m feeling strong  
- _Our Guessing Game, The Moody Blues_

 

**Chapter Twenty-Seven: _The Map Never Lies! Part One_**

=====

> _Dear Hermione,_
> 
> _Know that I am your friend, and have no intention of making you any more uncomfortable than you already are by reading this. I am, fortunately or unfortunately as the case may be, a fairly perceptive person by nature, and there have been many things that struck me as inconsistencies, the persistent ink-blots surrounding your name being one of them.  
>  As a token to show that I have no ill-will toward you, I have every intention of showing you the means by which I discovered your real name. I hope you will take this gesture as it is meant: that there are some things meant to be kept secret, and others that are all right to be revealed—the balance of ‘which is which’ depends on the level of trust and friendship._
> 
> _If you like, we can continue our correspondence about this through Owls—it is a lot less confrontational (something I have no intention of being) as well as something to look forward to._
> 
> _Your friend,  
>  Remus_

=====

> _Dear Remus,_
> 
> _I considered sending you a blank piece of parchment with only ‘Dear Remus’, a large empty space, and ‘Your friend, Hermione.’ I thought that might adequately express my response to your letter. Considering that I am very rarely speechless, you should congratulate yourself.  
>  This is in no way a bad thing—it’s just that there are many things about me which, as you said, are best kept a secret, and others that I’m not very good at concealing. I find that I cannot stop myself from being slightly cryptic—but believe me when I tell you, Remus, there will come a time when you will understand just how important secrets can be._
> 
> _As to my name—it is one of those things that is both slightly mundane and easily explained—as well as intensely important to conceal. ‘Hermione Granger’ is a person who knows things that can be harmful to her loved ones, but Hermia James is a simple transfer student who reads too much, likes to foil Potions schemes, and is falling for your best friend._  
>  I don’t want to and have no intention of hurting anyone. As you might imagine, this includes your friend Sirius, whose name I find I cannot even write without blushing. I can already tell that he is a very strong-willed person who is fiercely protective of his friends, and I—I just don’t know how best to bring up these ‘inconsistencies’, as you have termed them. As much as I would love to simply come out and tell him the truth, all of it—not only would that be confusing, but…the truth –changes- in the course of time, so what I would tell him would not necessarily even BE the truth. I am sorry for being so cryptic.  
> I fear that the mere necessity of keeping some things a secret will hurt him. Unfortunately as we’ve all found out or will find out in the future, simply –existing- can cause pain. The best salve I’ve ever found for that is friendship. 
> 
> _Thank you for yours,  
>  Hermione_

=====

> _Dear Hermione,_
> 
> _I confess to being quite pleased by your reference to Sirius. As someone who considers the word ‘friend’ to be an incomplete and trite word in regards to how much I care for him, I have to thank you for bringing him so much happiness._  
>  You’re quite right about his personality. I had already brought up some concerns to him—mostly on the grounds of, ‘I really hope she’s not being threatened in some way’—and you’ll be pleased to hear that he is just as worried about your safety as I am, rather than angry at your need to conceal some things.  
> I think I speak with no mean experience when it comes to there being some things about ourselves we’re just not willing or capable of showing to others. Not all of it comes from a lack of self-esteem, either, and I always found the concept of ‘if you care about someone, you keep nothing from them’ as a very naïve ideal to try to cling to. Relationships are, in their very nature, vulnerable. 
> 
> _I think at this point I’m just rambling, so I’ll stop.  
>  Remus_

=====

> _Dear Remus,_
> 
> _I find your conjecture intensely interesting—it’s not rambling at all! There are numerous famous quotes, in the Muggle world and in ours, that harp on the intrinsic connection between love and pain. We must become, as you say, vulnerable, in order to be able to love—but our love makes us vulnerable in ways we cannot control. I think it’s that lack of control that is what we truly fear._
> 
> _Power –is- control—and knowledge is power._
> 
> _The most interesting thing about this, to me, is that ‘public opinion’ is one of the most powerful forces in society. I was convinced that Lucius Malfoy had done something that had resulted in my being sorted to Slytherin—but I was afraid to speak up. Why? Because as a member of Slytherin House, I knew I would lose what little respect I had—and gain quite a bit of enmity—simply by their knowing I was unhappy._  
>  Yet, by not speaking up—I remained unhappy.  
> It took Peter’s courageous face-off with Malfoy and Professor Dumbledore’s interruption of it to bring about the change.  
> But knowledge is still power, and now as a Gryffindor, -I- have knowledge about Slytherin. 
> 
> _Unfortunately it’s nothing new—the rumors are all true._
> 
> _Winking broadly,  
>  Hermione_

=====

> _Dear Hermione,_
> 
> _I hope you don’t mind that I’ve slipped this into your Potions textbook. The looks we’ve been getting by receiving so many post-owls were starting to turn into suspicions, and the last thing I wish to do is endanger your relationship by making known our correspondence._
> 
> _Public opinion, again._
> 
> _If you’re wondering what caused me to laugh so much at your last missive, it was your final line about Slytherin. You wouldn’t really be able to appreciate the whole mythos that seems to surround our two houses, but I’ve often wondered if Salazar Slytherin and Godric Gryffindor began it or it’s just developed over the centuries. In any event, the state of it right now is near-stagnation, and I really do wonder if it will improve in the future or not.  
>  Perhaps we’ll find out by the time one of us has an eleven-year-old. I’m tempted to speculate simply to make you blush—but I won’t._
> 
> _I recall promising to show you how I figured out your name. Please don’t let me forget to do that, tonight—I’ll try to find a way to bring it up so that the others (you’ll understand, later) won’t have a collective heart attack when I suggest showing it to you._
> 
> _See you in class,  
>  Remus_

=====

> _Remus—that was a dirty trick! I spent all morning looking for an owl…don’t you DARE snicker at me—I know you’re going to do it when you read that. I don’t look at EVERY page of my books every day, you know!  
>  All right, I usually do, or close enough to it._
> 
> _I hope you read this in DADA and get called up to get some sort of nasty curse performed on you._
> 
> _Love,  
>  Hermione_

=====

> _My DEAR friend Hermione, who I am SURE is very forgiving,_
> 
> _I’m sorry that you ended up being called up for passing notes, but once I’d read it I have to confess that I enjoyed the irony. At least our estimable Professor Sapiens didn’t actually READ the letter…_
> 
> _Anyway, I hope that tonight I can make it up to you, when I show you what I’ve been promising—I can guarantee you’ve never seen anything like it._
> 
> _A sincerely apologetic,  
>  Remus_

=====

> _Good morning, you absolute genius you!_
> 
> _How did you do it? I’m sure I raved enough about it yesterday, but honestly, that Map is absolutely incredible. I call you a genius, however, because I can’t figure out how you managed to make it so that no one saw that my name didn’t match up. I suppose after that display, I can forgive you for sacrificing me to the Defense Against the Dark Arts gods—I don’t believe I’ve ever seen anything quite so frightening as what that curse—  
>  I don’t want to think about that._
> 
> _So, would it be opening too big of a can of worms (do purely magically raised children even –know- that phrase?) if I asked you what else about my behavior seems suspect?_
> 
> _Wondering if she should have asked that,  
>  Hermione_

=====

> _Dear Hermione,_
> 
> _I can’t say that I’ve heard that phrase spoken more than once or twice, and all from people with (I really do hate this term) mixed blood. I suppose you’ll have to decide whether or not it’s a bad thing to ask by my responses._
> 
> _The first thing I do want to do is to reassure you that I do not think your choices of what to say and what not to say have been malicious. If they have been, then I salute you on your ability to deceive someone who likes to think of himself as a fairly good judge of character._
> 
> _I believe you were telling the truth when you told us you were Muggle-born. You have no reason to lie about something like that, particularly since you are no longer a member of Slytherin House. However, I find it difficult to believe that you haven’t spent the majority of your time in the magical world. Your way of speaking, your ease and knowledge of our world—these things come from prolonged exposure, not from extensive reading. Also—  
>  (I really hate to bring this up in this way, but you did ask)  
> —I find it difficult to believe that you’ve spent your last few schooling years in the company of your parents. This is a cruel thing to say but…you don’t appear to miss them as you would had you lived with -them- rather than at a boarding school like the rest of us._
> 
> _I think I would make a terrible Auror—I am far too sensitive to the feelings of others when it comes to the tough questions._
> 
> _Remus_

=====

> _Dear Mr. I-worry-too-much Lupin,_
> 
> _Would my saying, ‘yes, I did attend a boarding school quite similar to Hogwarts, but I can’t say where, and telling anyone else would be a waste of energy because I can’t explain further’ be sufficient?_
> 
> _I thought not._
> 
> _Perhaps I can dazzle you with the fact that I got 10 OWLs? No?_  
>  My parents are very normal but dear Muggles. We love each other very much, but they’re very preoccupied with their work—they’re both dentists, but they don’t share a practice. I think the world would likely explode if they did—my father is quite a literalist, a neat freak, and I’m certain I’ve inherited my thoroughness from him. My mother—she’s the one that named me Hermione. Need I say more?  
> It’s hard to explain…they care very much for me but—they’re DENTISTS. A daughter that’s a witch, and not one from a telly program just goes into their mind as ‘Something Else, and Not To Be Dwelled On.’ I think they enjoyed their trip to Diagon Alley—my dad figured out the bank transfer rate easily enough—but if you asked them they tell their neighbors and friends, I think they’d say I’m in a boarding school in France, or something. 
> 
> _I don’t think parents are as willing to accept oddities in their children as we’d like to think they are._
> 
> _And, on that slightly depressing note, I’ll see you in Transfiguration.  
>  Hermia_
> 
> _Ps. Great Merlin, I wrote that without thinking. Hurrah!_

=====

> _Dear Miss Granger,_
> 
> _Your words have struck a chord. I, however, have never been good at music, so I’ll simply tell you that you are quite right about parents._
> 
> _The descriptions you give of yours make me wonder just what went through your father’s mind as your mother named you—does he compromise much, or are you both ‘Hermione’ and ‘Jane’ at home (see, I remembered your middle name)?_
> 
> _I’ve become complacent and forgotten the true nature of our correspondence—I apologize. Come to think of it, however, you probably don’t mind.  
>  I said this to myself earlier this month, but—does ‘Hogwarts, A History’ have floor plans? Are you simply excellent in the little-appreciated field of Hogwarts’ architecture or do you have some other way of knowing your way around so well? Also, I apologize for this letter’s lateness, though I suppose it isn’t as bad when you’re not peering owlishly at the skies waiting (I’m really not good at that sort of humor, am I?)._
> 
> _I do promise (on the off chance that you do not find this until morning) that I did not sneak into your rooms with the Invisibility Cloak to place this between your Arithmancy and Charms books._
> 
> _Your friend Remus, whose middle name is as just interesting as ‘Jane’, I assure you._

=====

> _Dear Remus,_
> 
> _I’d been here before._
> 
> _Short and sweet,  
>  Hermione_

=====

> _Dear Hermione,_
> 
> _Short—yes. Sweet—no._
> 
> _Remus,  
>  Shorter_

=====

> _Remus,_
> 
> _You don’t want to start this._
> 
> _Hermione_

=====

> _Hermione,_
> 
> _You’re Right._
> 
> _RJL_

=====

> _R—Damn you! –HJG_

=====

> _H—Sorry—RJL_

=====

> _YOU WIN._

=====

> _Dear Hermione,_
> 
> _Wherever did you learn the spell to make my soup letters spell that? It is most definitely YOU that won that little spat, I assure you. If it had not been for that little added specialty to your message, I’d have responded with a simple ‘Fine.’ and been victorious._
> 
> _Just saying, is all._
> 
> _I assume by your message I-can’t-count-how-many letters ago that the subject of your knowledge of Hogwarts is another one of those ‘best not to ask’ situations? If so, it might comfort you to know that I’ve been the only one to notice (I think, anyway), and in a few more days you’ll have been here a month, and it won’t seem such an oddity anymore._
> 
> _Oh—and she won’t tell you, but Lily’s birthday is on the second of October. Since that is this Sunday, I’m sure we can figure out something suitably embarrassing for her 18th. Thought you’d want to know._
> 
> _Not a sore loser at all,  
>  Remus_

=====

> _Dear Ever-So-Slightly-A-Sore-Loser-But-Not-Really,_
> 
> _Just remember the next time you cross me that I can make you –literally- eat your words._
> 
> _Simple answer to your question is: yes. If it comforts you, it will all make sense at some point, I promise. Hopefully by then you won’t hate me and blame me for all the problems in the world._
> 
> _I’m really sorry I am so cryptic. I really shouldn’t be cryptic at all—I shouldn’t SAY anything at all. I don’t mean to worry you and I find that having someone I trust to talk to about things leads me down paths where the roads become pavement, pavement to cobblestone, cobblestone to dirt, and dirt to quicksand.  
>  I don’t mean to worry you. In fact the danger I refer to is all about protecting others—I’m not in any danger. I guess you could say I –present- a danger, but not an active one, if I can help it._
> 
> _Quicksand again._
> 
> _I’m going to send this before I change my mind.  
>  Hermione_

=====

> _Dear Hermione,_
> 
> _I couldn’t resist the trip to the Owlery this morning, so I hope that when you get this you won’t be too surprised. I always have enjoyed Saturdays—I guess it’s because although I like mornings, I dislike the feeling that I have responsibility that I MUST attend to when I wake up, like on school days._
> 
> _So what do I do? I wake up and immediately write a letter, meaning to post it immediately…_
> 
> _I really only have one more question for you._
> 
> _Is this danger related in any way to the threat from an organization known as the Death Eaters, or their leader?_
> 
> _Concerned,  
>  Remus_


	28. The Map Never Lies -- Part II

  
“Each friend represents a world in us, a world possibly not born until they arrive, and it is only by this meeting that a new world is born.”  
- _Anais Nin_

 

Hermione was quite surprised when at breakfast on Monday the usual arrival of Post Owls included a small scop owl that landed at her plate and stuck his leg out. She looked around at her companions, but no one seemed unduly interested in her letter, making her wonder who could possibly have sent it. After she had fed the tiny bird with a bit of biscuit from her breakfast, it took off and she unraveled the first roll of the parchment.

Hermione’s blood ran cold at seeing her true name.

She lifted her head quickly, eyes narrowing as she scanned first the High Table of faculty, and then, with leaden heart, the occupants of the Slytherin long table. A discreet cough beside her refocused her attention to her Gryffindor companions.

“You should probably read the rest,” Remus said to her quietly, a strangely urgent note in his voice. Hermione unwrapped the rest of the curled parchment and understood why he’d been so interested in it when she saw his signature at the bottom. _Well, that’s a lot better than some other possibilities_ , she thought to herself, releasing an audible sigh of relief.

“Bad news?” Peter asked solicitously from across the table. She could feel Lupin tensing beside her ever so slightly, the nervous reaction exactly the right way to ease her mind about the letter he’d sent.

“Not at all,” Hermione answered Peter, smiling at him in the hopes of reassuring the boy next to her as well.

She left the Great Hall early, wanting a little privacy as she released her anxiety in the only way she knew how. Hermione was glad she’d thought to take her diary with her; usually she left it in her trunk, but for some strange reason she wanted it with her today, as though the secrets she knew were more comforting when she could carry them with her in something more tangible than memories.

> _Dear Hermione,_
> 
> _I just got a letter from Remus._
> 
> _It started just like this one, too—‘Dear Hermione,’_
> 
> _I can only assume he was smart enough to look for me on the Marauder’s Map as soon as he had a suspicion about my name._
> 
> _Is it strange to find so much consolation in the fact that he was always thoughtful and caring even in school? He even thought about the fact that I might be uneasy about how he’d figured it out—he offered to show me the map._
> 
> _He didn’t –call- it the map, of course._
> 
> _And to top it all, he even offered to talk to me about it via letters, rather than face to face, in case I would be more comfortable with that…_
> 
> _If I can manage to control my girlish hormones enough NOT to cry, I think I’ll write him a response right now. Shame we can’t Apparate on school grounds, the Owlery is SO far from Charms…_

=====

Sirius was finding it hard to concentrate in class.

Not that he didn’t have problems normally, but _normally_ the girl in the seat in front of his didn’t wear her hair down (which he loved), and then there were the little details that he’d gotten to hold her hand and kiss her over the weekend.

He hoped telepathy worked, because he was sending as strong a message as he could to Professor McGonagall that today was a very bad day to do live transfiguration. Not only would he likely botch any such assignment, but his inattention would probably garner him a detention that would involve cleaning up after his and anyone else’s mistakes. Unfortunately, thinking about _that_ just reminded him of what had happened during the last detention he’d had with McGonagall.

“ _Merlin_ —even _I_ wasn’t _this_ bad last year about Lily,” James finally said after Sirius knocked his friend’s glasses off with a clumsy wand movement. Sirius brushed his hair from his eyes nervously and looked back at the hasty notes he’d taken about the task for the day.

“I sat with Peter last year—I wouldn’t know,” he said without looking up, trying to brush off Potter’s material point. I didn’t appear to have worked, as James had stopped what he was doing entirely and was now just staring at him. “What?” Sirius hissed, his ears turning a little red from discomfort.

“You’re in love with her already, aren’t you?” James accused, with a tinge of awe in his voice. Sirius’ blush traveled quickly across his ears, down his neck, and into his face.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he said, carefully stacking the parchment in front of him into a neat pile— _upside down_.

=====

Remus’ mother periodically sent him letters and packages throughout the year, and so he didn’t garner too much attention when he had a visit from a Post Owl during lunch. ‘Hermia’s’ casual conversation hardly paused as he unrolled the scrap of parchment, something that impressed him as well as had him unwillingly wondering if it meant she was used to pretending.

Then he looked closer, and saw that she had been spreading jam onto a piece of toast repeatedly for the past three minutes—and cursed himself for his cynicism.

Halfway through the letter, Remus decided that he should have read it when he was alone. Her statement about secrets particularly resonated with him, and when he read her comments about Sirius, he looked up to see her watching him, a very faint blush coloring her cheeks—behavior he echoed mere moments later when she thanked him for his friendship.

He felt very humbled—he’d basically sent the girl a letter accusing her of lying to himself and his friends, and her response had been to graciously thank him for being a good friend to her. Remus told himself that he was being foolish—he should be pleased that she’d understood his intent, not feeling guilty about the confrontation he deliberately hadn’t initiated.

Rather than completing his meal, Remus excused himself and headed to the Owlery. He felt very strongly about what he wanted to say to her in reply—as someone who had to keep a very large aspect of his life a secret, the thought of being able to share that feeling with someone was suddenly very important to him.

He also thought the possibility that she might receive the owl right in the middle of their monthly Care of Magical Creatures class had great potential.

=====

Hermione had mixed feelings about their Care of Magical Creatures lesson that day, mostly due to the fact that it had been completely _fantastic_ , and something she’d have loved to have attended in her own time. The ‘mixed’ part came from the fact that she cared a great deal for Hagrid, and always felt slightly guilty when she enjoyed a CoMC class not taught by him.

Professor Kettleburn (about whom Hermione finally understood Dumbledore’s explanation of why he’d retired—the man was simply fearless as well as brilliant) had a particular talent for the care of reptiles. In his enchanted courtyard in a remote section of the castle grounds, he’d been carefully cultivating a group of Ashwinders, the firey serpents whose eggs were so prized as potion ingredients. She’d read about them but had never expected to be able to see one.

The students weren’t allowed closer than a yard to the magical fire in which the snakes lived, but Professor Kettleburn explained carefully about how their bodies thrived on fire, similar to salamanders but that they reproduced in a very different way. Ashwinder eggs, the professor had explained with a nearly fanatic gleam in his eye, were one of the only offspring in nature that created their own warmth for incubation. Left alone, the eggs spawned their own fires, eventually hatching and expanding the blaze as any creature would do to their habitation. Naturally, this was a problem in areas where the snakes shared their living space with other creatures.

The specimens the Care of Magical Creatures professor was caring for right now had come from near an apartment complex in Surrey—the professor spoke of their appearance there in very severe tones; he was sure they had been left there as a prank. Rather than exterminate them, as their eggs cost quite a lot to obtain and were used in some of the potions that Hogwarts students learned in class, he had decided to cultivate them instead. Hermione and the others in their class watched in awe as Professor Kettleburn tended the fire in which the serpents lived, the heat nearly oppressive from as far away as two yards.

They were still talking about the lesson as the Gryffindor and Slytherin students began the walk back to the main grounds, interrupted only by the arrival of a very harried looking owl with a letter for Hermione.

“You’re popular today,” Sirius remarked, watching her face as she read the parchment.

“I’ve probably forgotten someone’s birthday,” Hermione said glibly, folding the missive carefully and placing it in her bag.

=====

“I haven’t played this in years,” Sirius complained loudly, rubbing his hand where it stung from his loss. Peter was exceptionally good at games of luck, and for some reason every time they played Exploding Snap, the card that finally blew up always got him in the same spot.

“Don’t be a sore loser,” quipped James from his four-poster. He had his legs up against one of the supports as he flipped through the motorcycle parts catalogue his parents had sent he and Sirius.

“’Sore loser’, cute,” Remus said from his place at the window.

“Don’t encourage him, please,” Sirius said, groaning as the boy across from him began to deal again. “Besides, it’s hard to be anything _but_ a loser against this one.” He jutted the thumb that wasn’t throbbing at Peter, who just grinned. 

They all jumped in surprise a few minutes later from a loud noise coming from the window—causing Sirius to lose his concentration and forget to drop the card that was about to explode.

“What in the _bloody_ hell was that?!” he said, more upset at the fresh pain than whatever the noise had been.

“Owl,” Remus said sheepishly, releasing the window to swing out the pane of glass and let the bird in.

“You’ve been getting an awful lot of those,” Sirius said in a more moderate voice as he dolefully dealt out a new game for he and Peter.

“He’s gotten more than two in a week before,” Pettigrew said reasonably.

“No talking privileges until you lose a game,” Sirius teased, not quite joking. He wondered what was in the letter that had Remus looking serious one minute and laughing the next.

=====

Hermione was a little disappointed. She’d sent the last message to Remus not long after supper that night, and breakfast had come and gone with no response. She told herself she was being a little silly—after all, not even twelve hours had passed since she’d sent the owl, and she wasn’t the only one who cared about classwork. It would be more prudent, she told herself firmly, to be concerned about what he was asking her _in_ the letters, rather than worrying about _when_ she got the next one. It was difficult to think that way, though—this was _Remus_ , after all.

Even so, she refused to look at him all throughout Potions, half punishing him for withholding a response, half worried about what she might see from his face—what if he hadn’t responded yet because he was talking things over with Sirius?

By the end of lunch, she’d run out of creative ways to scan the windows for approaching owls. In frustration, she decided that the best way to distract herself would be to go back over the effects of the potion they’d learned earlier that morning in class. Hermione pulled her Potions textbook from her bag, a thickly folded piece of paper falling to her lap as she did so.

A sinking suspicion struck her upon seeing it, and she looked up just in time to see Remus’ lips twitching slightly.

=====

Only the knowledge of what it would do to everyone’s future had stopped Hermione from trying to hex Remus Lupin with something really painful—and _permanent_. She was still fuming as she walked across the grounds, intending to settle under her favorite tree for a while and calm down. After she’d finally found the letter he’d hidden in her textbook, she’d dashed off a quick response—but hadn’t been able to give it to him before their DADA class had started.

Thinking herself clever, she’d levitated it to his desk when Professor Sapiens’ back was turned—not that it had stopped the action from being detected by the clever professor. Thankfully she hadn’t read the letter; instead she’d suggested Hermione play guinea pig for the effects of a hallucinogenic curse useful against banshees. The images the curse induced were completely horrific—but thankfully not of the same type as a Boggart’s. Hermione knew exactly what she’d see should she be forced to face her worst fears, and since Boggarts turned themselves into one’s worst fears, the result was always viewable to anyone nearby. The implications of _that_ were too horrible to think about.

“Lovers quarrel?” asked sarcastic voice from above her. Hermione almost wanted to scream. The last thing she needed right now was to deal with a snarky Severus Snape.

“Not at all, actually,” Hermione replied with a forced smile. “Everything is just splendid.”

“I’m sorry to hear it,” Snape responded in a dissatisfied tone, choosing to lean against his tree rather than sit beneath it. The disparity in their positions made her feel like his subordinate, a feeling she resented. There would be enough of that in the future.

“That’s a singularly ungracious point of view,” she pointed out, knowing _why_ he held the opinion he did, but choosing to goad him out of spite.

“I don’t have to explain myself to _you_ ,” Severus said coldly, seeming to take delight in his next statement. “Your _boyfriend_ and his little band of troublemakers have only themselves to blame for their reputation.”

Hermione couldn’t suppress the flush of pleasure she got from hearing Sirius termed as her boyfriend, and the mere impulse to conceal that reaction from Snape caused her to get even angrier with him.

“I had thought better of you,” she said, finally rising to her feet in order to place herself on physically equal footing with him. “I had—” she sighed, “ _have_ respect for your ability to be yourself in any situation.” She paused, noting that he seemed to be completely confused as to where she was going with this. “Yet, you allow yourself to get all worked up at the thought of someone else’s happiness.”

“I am _not_ ‘worked up,’” Snape snapped. Hermione raised an eyebrow, and he flushed slightly. “—and I have no desire or need for your respect.” Despite the fact that she’d once again scored a hit on him in their unacknowledged battle of wits, he held himself straight and proud as he spoke the last.

“That’s why I respect you,” Hermione said, leaving him to contemplate that statement. She’d come out to ‘her’ tree to calm down, and ended up leaving more agitated than when she’d arrived—but she felt a _lot_ better.

=====

“You have got to be kidding, Moony,” James said in exasperation, looking at his contrite friend and trying his best to stay stern. “You _know_ the house elves are going to be in there any minute to straighten the room—and any contraband they find gets sent straight to Dumbledore!”

“It isn’t as if I intended it to fall from my bag,” Lupin lied, easily. The altered Sneakoscope was one of James’ planned pranks for Halloween; there was a complete set of them, one each for all of the students and faculty that Prongs disliked. The one he’d set on the bottom shelf of a bookcase in Potions class would squeal uncontrollably whenever Filch came near it. He hoped that James would order him to go retrieve it, figuring that his friend would send him with the Map (thus enabling him to show Hermia without having to explain anything to his friends) and perhaps the Cloak as well, if he’d forgiven him for lending it to Hermia yet. Sure enough, he had judged James’ reaction pretty well.

“You’ve got to go get it, Remus—the one for Filch took the most time!” All four boys shuddered as they each recalled exactly how James and Sirius had figured out how to attune the Sneakoscopes—they’d needed a piece of hair from each of their ‘victims.’ Filch’s had been particularly difficult to obtain. 

“We’ve still got a full month before—”

“Don’t forget ‘ _Prior Incantato_ ,’” Sirius interrupted Peter in an urgent voice. Remus knew what his friend was thinking—all someone had to do would be to cast a spell on the item that revealed the last enchantment cast on it, and they were likely to be exposed as the culprits.

“That only works on wands,” Remus assured them. He looked around at his four friends. “You want me to go get it, then?” They nodded, all moving back from their huddled position on the couch when they saw the portrait hole open to admit Hermia James.

=====

“Good evening,” Hermione said, dropping herself gratefully into her customary armchair with a sigh of relief.

“Long day?” Sirius asked in a voice that had his friends shooting knowing glances at each other. She nodded.

“Apart from having to be the one chosen to demonstrate just how horrible a certain curse is in Defence class—”

“That did look nasty, from your reaction,” James cut in.

“I don’t want to think about it,” she asserted. “I managed to run into Severus Snape just a bit ago, he seems convinced that I’m some sort of scarlet woman and calls _you_ my boyfriend.” Hermione nodded to Sirius as she finished speaking. She’d brought it up in this way because she dearly wished to know his opinion, but knew that if she asked him as if it came from herself, he’d have the upper hand. She kind of liked it when he was on the defensive, anyway—he was almost cute.

“That sounds about right,” Sirius said, clearly meaning the ‘boyfriend’ section. It was plain to everyone within earshot that he’d forgotten any other part of the conversation as soon as Hermione had referred to him as her boyfriend.

“Uhh, Sirius?” Peter leaned over and put an arm around his friend in grand camaraderie fashion. “I think you skipped about half of what she said.”

Until Pettigrew had pointed it out, Hermione had _also_ forgotten she’d referred to herself as a ‘scarlet woman’—she was just as preoccupied as Sirius by the latter half of her statement. Still, since it was a chance for her to heckle him a little bit, she sat up stiff as a board and fixed Sirius with a glare that would have melted stone.

“What I said sounded right to you?” she asked, adopting her best Minerva McGonagall impression. Sirius gulped nervously, oblivious to the snickers of the three other boys. Hermione was disappointed that Lily wasn’t present for this—it truly was _classic_ —but her friend had another Head Girl meeting.

“I do _not_ think you’re a scarlet woman,” Sirius asserted, his face flaming and his voice firm.

“I’m glad to hear it,” Hermione said, relenting slightly. “And?”

“And what?” Sirius said, eyeing her warily, as if worried he’d missed another implied insult in her original story.

“ _Am_ I your girlfriend?”

It was taking all of her willpower not to burst into hysterical laughter at the discomfort she was inflicting on Sirius. Clearly he wanted to say yes—and she wanted him to say it, too—but he also didn’t want to get hexed into the next century if he misjudged her in any way.

“Well! _Look_ at the time!” James stood up and began to gather his things, speaking in a falsely excited voice. “I think I have business in the library—what about you, Wormtail?” Peter looked at James gratefully and nodded; the two boys exited the common room as if they were being chased by Dementors. Sirius turned to Remus.

“I wouldn’t miss this for the world,” Lupin said, resting his feet casually on the coffee table between the couch and the armchair Hermione was perched on. He gestured to them lazily, as though their little drama was entirely for his benefit. “Do go on.”


	29. The Map Never Lies -- Part III

  
“And the day came when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom.”  
- _Anais Nin_

 

“Get lost, Remus,” Sirius said baldly.

“As much as I’d love to comply with that request, my dear friend,” Lupin said expansively, “I do believe you recall what James threatened to do to me should I decide to filch his Cloak without his express written permission (in triplicate.)” Hermione burst out laughing, and Sirius sighed, clearly exasperated. He held up a finger to Remus asking him to wait a moment, then turned to Hermione with a strange sort of fire in his eyes that made her tingle all over.

“ _Yes_.” 

He only spoke one word, but the sheer possessiveness in his voice completely took her breath away. It was _wild_ —it was so very wrong in all of the ways that she’d promised herself she would never give in to—and she wouldn’t have it any other way. He then turned back to Lupin. “Go get it.”

Remus fled.

Hermione felt so small in her armchair as Sirius came over and crouched beside her. She felt strangely shy—and at the same time the most powerful woman in the world.

“Mia,” he said, thrilling her with the name that only he called her. “Can I be—” —Suddenly Hermione realized what it was Sirius was about to ask her. Not ‘Will you be _my_ girlfriend,’ but ‘Can I be _your_ boyfriend.’ 

Understanding his personality as she did so well, this giving of himself, this asking _permission_ after just staking his claim on her with his strongest voice and most possessive look…it was breathtaking.

She didn’t let him finish, instead reaching out with trembling hands to grasp the front of his robes and pull him to her. She allowed herself the luxury of delving her fingers into his hair with one hand as the other clutched the fabric at his chest, feeling his rushing heartbeat and knowing hers raced just as fast. Hermione was overcome by wonder, knowing that life held precious few moments like these. His face was so close to hers that their breath mingled, an intimacy that filled her heart to overflowing.

“Herm—”

“ _Yes_ ,” she echoed his earlier fervency, stopping Sirius from completing his version of her name in a selfish gesture made right by the answer it gave him. Hermione kissed him then, _knowing_ she would never hear him speak her real name with such love in his voice—because when she returned home, he would be gone.

=====

Remus Lupin had a dilemma. His clever plan of showing Hermione the Marauders’ Map would cease being clever and begin being a huge mistake should he fail to retrieve the Sneakoscope before the house elves tidied up the classroom—but as close as he was with Sirius, he didn’t think he wanted to be at the receiving end of whatever hex he’d earn himself by interrupting his two friends. His only hope was to disrupt them in a way that appeared non-intentional.

First, he considered deliberately falling down the stairs from the boys’ dormitory.

Next, he thought that a well-placed _Incendio!_ might cause the fire to crackle, thus distracting the pair long enough for him to reappear.

—Then, Lupin remembered what he’d been ordered upstairs to get. Shaking his head at his pathetic problem-solving skills, Remus donned the Cloak and headed downstairs, sneaking past the kissing couple and opening the portrait hole. The movement caused the two students to start apart—not guiltily, but as teenagers naturally disinclined to have an audience while snogging. He reversed his direction and re-entered the common room sans Invisibility Cloak.

“All right,” he said, thrusting his arms out in the manner of a sacrificial lamb and shutting his eyes. “You can hex me now.”

Remus was hoping that the blunt approach would prevent Hermione from showing him exactly what her Bat-Something Hex was all about.

“Very tactful,” Sirius said dryly, moving to take his seat on the couch again.

“Hermia, might you be able to help me with this?” Remus said, studiously ignoring Black’s wry sarcasm as he gestured to the door.

“Are you trying to get my _girlfriend_ detention?” 

Sirius completely failed at the nonchalance he’d been going for—he was positively _glowing._

“ _Please_ tell me you’re not going to go about referring to me in _that_ tone of voice,” Hermione said, valiantly attempting to suppress her own delight and mostly succeeding. At his deeply wounded look, she added, “I wouldn’t want everyone to think my _boyfriend_ was a self-satisfied—What did you need, Remus?” she asked, not even needing to finish her admonishment to Sirius, whose eyes had slightly glazed over at her statement.

“Sirius, before you go all cave-man on me, remember your reputation,” Lupin said reasonably. “If you’re found wandering alone in the halls after hours, you’ll likely earn detention on the grounds of _intent_.”

“Whereas I could very well be lost,” Hermione said, nodding. “It makes sense.” She stood, looking over at Sirius as though testing to see what his reaction would be.

“Well,” he said, his grey eyes twinkling, “it isn’t as if I’d get anything done if you stayed—and I _do_ have two rolls of parchment left to write.”

=====

> _Dear Hermione,_
> 
> _I have to hand it to Remus, he managed to show me the Map with—_
> 
> _Oh, sod it. Map seen, item recovered, no trouble in the halls—Sirius is my boyfriend._
> 
> _I am –never- showing this to Harry._
> 
> _Well, maybe once he’s forty with a passel of Prefect children and I’m an old maid who’s sick of his asking me why I never married._
> 
> _Oh, sod THAT, too. No time for the future, I’m here now, and Sirius is my boyfriend!!! And yes, that was more than one exclamation point. Love is blind, remember? I just didn’t see myself adding them._
> 
> _Oh, where are Muggle sleeping pills when you need them? Or a sleeping charm? I’ll NEVER get to slee—SIRIUS IS MY BOYFRIEND!!!!_

=====

Sirius was a little worried. He was actually paying attention in History of Magic class—to the _lesson_ , no less. All because Lily, Hermia, and Remus had engaged in a lively debate about the Goblin Rebellions (he never thought he’d describe a discussion on such a thing as ‘lively’) at breakfast, and he’d been completely lost. Sirius likened this sudden change of heart to the lengths James had gone to for Lily when she’d wanted a picture of the two of them in front of his parents’ house that summer—with his hair combed and laying flat.

It was doing about as much good—the image of Lily and James cycled through a very pleasant image of two peaceful individuals in front of the wisteria-covered arbor that led to the steps of the Potter’s front porch—until James’ image sneezes and his hair morphs back to its natural state, and Lily’s image throws up her hands in disgust. Sirius had thought it was quite representative of their relationship, really. Unfortunately, his retention of knowledge in History of Magic class was going about as well as could be expected—not at all. 

“Well, that was completely over my head,” he remarked to Lupin as they walked along the hallway to Transfiguration class. Remus laughed.

“History tends to be a cumulative thing, Padfoot,” he said as he clapped Sirius on the back. “Still, you must truly care for her if you’ve begun listening to Professor Binns.”

“Moony, someday you’re going to fall in love, and then James and I will be able to torment _you_ to within an inch of your life,” Sirius said crossly, not even realizing the full import of what he said. 

“Well, until then, I just want you to know, Sirius—” Remus had taken on a very serious tone of voice, and his friend stopped to listen, assuming that whatever Lupin was about to say would be profound. “—your socks don’t match.”

“I hope whoever you fall in love with drives you slowly insane until you can’t tell which way is up without her telling you,” Sirius said disgustedly.

“As long as she picks out my socks for me,” Remus said in an infuriatingly cheerful voice, “I’ll be happy.”

=====

Hermione felt slightly guilty during the entirety of Transfiguration class, after what she’d written to Remus. He’d never really talked about his own family, and her statement of ‘ _I don’t think parents are as willing to accept oddities in their children as we’d like to think they are_ ’ bothered her more in regards to how Remus might react to it than it did in her own context.

Hermione liked to see herself as a realist. The truth was, she didn’t belong to the same world as her parents did. It had hurt, that first year—coming home with so many exciting stories only to hear the same tone of voice in reply that Grangers used when their neighbor talked about his nephew at Oxford. It was as if they were offended that she’d needed something like magic to make herself feel special. Gradually, she’d stopped telling them about her adventures, and they stopped asking token questions about what she’d learned. Finally, only the love remained, like a marriage between two people unsuited in personality but inexplicably bound by their emotions.

In any case, she forced herself to focus on her schoolwork for the remainder of the day, knowing instinctively that Lupin’s response would likely take some time, and feeling completely comfortable with that fact.

=====

Sirius spent the entire day on Thursday convincing himself he was not jealous. Clearly Remus and Hermia had some sort of private letter war going on, but he knew Lupin well enough to know he wasn’t interested in her romantically, and he was fairly sure he knew how Hermia reacted around someone she fancied— _these_ thoughts carried him from halfway through Potions (with a snickering Remus through half of it, which tried his patience sorely) straight on to lunch. During lunch he modified his position on the goings-on slightly, as whatever Remus had done had caused Hermia to be adorably vexed throughout the whole meal.

Sirius spent the afternoon wondering what he could do to vex her just enough to be adorable but not enough to be refused kisses.

He was even slightly disappointed when he saw Remus’ soup suddenly sporting the words ‘YOU WIN’ spelled in pasta at dinner.

“Do I _even_ want to know?” Lily asked, spying the strange message over Lupin’s shoulder.

“It’s fairly self-explanatory,” Hermia said with a victorious grin. “—I won.”

The five remaining friends looked at each other, and then at Remus, who shrugged and pointed at his dinner.

Privately, Sirius decided that he’d won the bigger prize the night before.

=====

Friday found Hermione alternately excited about the prospect of Lily’s birthday and anxious as to the increasingly personal trend of Remus’ questions. She told herself she had _told_ him to ask them—but confessed to herself and her diary that she hadn’t quite been prepared for how penetrating his mind was. She knew she wouldn’t be able to fob him off with a witty (and extraordinarily amusing) battle of letters the next time he asked her something she was unwilling to answer.

Not for the first time she asked herself if it was truly necessary to keep _everything_ from Remus—and instantly reminded herself that she hadn’t.

He knew her name.

His letter after the amusing episode at dinner had been delightfully _Remus_ —both playful and informative, inquisitive and apologetic. She knew her response to it would take quite a while, commending herself on her foresight as Sirius burst through the door to the common room as though dropped off by a whirlwind. He took possession of her hand to kiss it and asked her to come outdoors with him in a voice she couldn’t refuse.

“I’m sorry—it’s just one of the last days warm enough to do this without needing a coat,” he apologized as she began to pant from the exertion of keeping up with him. Hermione leaned against a nearby tree to catch her breath—Sirius had practically sprinted from the castle across the grounds. His energy was at the same time exhausting and stimulating—for a long moment she could almost see his adult self merging with the young man in front of her. The impression faded, and she was left with the handsome original—with a devilish smile on his face.

“I don’t know—coats can be interesting,” she said, smiling archly at him.

“So can robes,” he said, stepping forward to pin her against the tree with one hand at either side of her head. At her height, the voluminous fabric of his school robe blocked her view of anything other than _him_.

“I can see that,” she approved, reaching up to adjust his crooked collar. “So, what does a Hogwarts student wear underneath his robes?” she asked, wondering how on earth she’d had the guts to ask that question with his warm grey eyes staring down at her.

“Well, if you’re James Potter, your answer would be ‘a Muggle corduroy leisure suit,’” he said seriously, tugging at the elastic that held her hair back.

“Oh, stop it!” she laughed up at him, shaking her head to evade his attempts to let her hair down.

“If you’re Remus Lupin, your answer would be ‘a plaid pair of pajamas,’ Sirius went on, nodding earnestly at her when she shook her head at him emphatically.

“You’re lying,” Hermione said, swatting at his hand when he got too close to her hair tie.

“But if you’re me,” he said, capturing her hand against the tree and releasing her hair with his other hand, “you’d say—” he stopped suddenly, burying his head in the mass of hair that sprang free. The moment turned from playful to seductive in mere seconds, and the fact that he still held one hand above her head made her feel vulnerable in an entirely exciting way.

“You’d say…” Hermione prompted, winding her other arm around his neck as she felt him take a deep breath of her hair. He lifted his head just enough to kiss her eyelid as she closed it, content to just feel rather than analyze, for once.

“I forgot,” he said, finally claiming her lips with a searing kiss. The light around them was fading, and when they paused for breath, what was left of the sunlight shining past them made his grey eyes glow as he looked at her. Hermione had never had reason or opportunity to really look into his eyes before meeting his younger self; now she was completely rooted in place by how expressive they were. 

“Your hair,” Sirius said, burying his face in her neck, making her shiver.

“It is so you to like something about me that I can’t stand,” Hermione said, her voice lacking the disappointment she felt the first time the thought had occurred to her.

“That’s me: the rebel,” Sirius said, the movement of his lips against her neck prompting her to turn her head and kiss him fiercely. 

“I _love_ that about you,” she said, bringing her hand up to brush her thumb against his cheek. “Even if it makes me cross,” she added, as Sirius had lifted a lock of hair to tickle her.

“I have bad news for you,” Sirius whispered in her ear. 

“Mmm?” Hermione said, entirely distracted.

“You’re beautiful when you’re cross,” Sirius said, kissing away the cross look that appeared when he said the words.

=====

She awoke from a sweet dream that fled from her as soon as her eyes opened. As it couldn’t possibly have been as sweet as her ‘walk by the lake’ the night before, she didn’t bother worrying about what she might have missed by forgetting it. The insistent tap of a beak on a window startled her, and Hermione realized it must have been what woke her up in the first place.

She blushed as she crossed the floor in her pajamas—the other beds were all empty, and it she had clearly slept long past her usual time. The large barn owl that delivered her letter— _almost certainly from Remus_ , she reminded herself when her heart leapt at the possibility of it being from Sirius—seemed quite put out when she hadn’t any tidbit to offer it for delivery, and flew off straightaway.

> _I really only have one more question for you. Is this danger related in any way to the threat from an organization known as the Death Eaters, or their leader?_
> 
> _Concerned,  
>  Remus._

Hermione sat down slowly on her bed, no longer embarrassed but grateful that the room was empty. Here in her hand was a way to explain all of her cryptic statements, all of her allusions to danger—but at what cost?

What would Remus think when she disappeared in a few more months?

If she took the easy way out, would that not shatter whatever friendship she had with him until _many_ years later, when she appeared on the train, younger, with no memory of him?

What would—what would _Sirius_ think, those few years from now, unwilling to believe that Peter had betrayed them all, and wondering where the woman he cared for had gone, a threat of danger from Voldemort hanging over her head?

Hermione curled up into a ball on her bed, alone with her racing thoughts, Remus’ letter a white stain on the crimson bedspread.


	30. A Couple Clichés

10,000 stones are hanging  
deep in my heart  
no I don't know how they  
don't tear me apart  
how could I ever believe  
10,000 stones would build  
the best of me.  
- _-10,000 Stones, Adrianne_

 

“Hermia?” A voice woke Hermione from the nap she hadn’t intended on taking, the sights and sounds of the room still hazy as she struggled to wake up fully. She’d heard someone calling her—

“Ginny?” she called out, expecting to see her friend’s cheerful face popping around the corner of her bedpost. She saw the flash of familiar red hair, but it wasn’t the youngest Weasley—it was Lily Evans. Hermione blinked her eyes quickly, trying to clear the strange double image of Ginny and Lily as one; she sat up and caught her breath as her hip let her know she’d been lying on it improperly.

“Oh, all you all right? We missed you at lunch—” Lily sat beside her, reaching out as if to steady her as she massaged the sore spot on her leg.

“I’ve missed lunch?” Hermione was shocked—she’d figured she had gotten Remus’ letter around nine or ten, which would make it long past twelve now. She wondered just how long she’d slept—and her leg needed some circulation, so she stood up and hobbled to her burlap bag of books where she kept a small pocket watch. When she reached it, however, she heard a small gasp from Lily.

Her friend was looking at the letter Hermione had left half unrolled on her bed, stricken.

“Oh, don’t worry about that,” Hermione said, limping back to the bed as fast as she could. She wanted to stop Lily from unrolling the rest of it—she could tell that the top section was still curled over from being rolled up, the part with her real name was still concealed.

“Don’t _worry_? But—” Lily stretched out a hand to pick up the letter, as though touching it might make the contents easier to understand.

“Please!” Hermione cried out in a voice she hoped didn’t sound too desperate. Lily looked back at her, thankfully with nothing but sheer concern written all over her face; she must not have seen the salutation. She’d snatched her hand back when Hermione had called out, and was now making her way to help her back to the bed.

“You’re not…that is to say, that letter…” Lily’s face flamed almost as red as her hair, and she looked extremely uncomfortable.

“It’s just a question,” Hermione said, a little confused as to why her friend was so nervous all of a sudden.

“But the letters this week—it’s from _Remus_ —” Suddenly, Hermione understood.

“Oh, _Lily_ ,” she murmured, relieved. “Remus is just worried about me—it is strange that I’ve suddenly shown up here with no formal schooling—you know how he is,” she said, reaching over and squeezing Lily’s hand in both a playful and comforting gesture. “He just likes to figure things out.” Poor Lily seemed close to tears now.

“Ohhhh, I’m sorry,” she breathed. “It’s just—all this week…and then whatever it was with the soup.” Hermione chuckled, as did Lily, lightly. “I’ve been feeling so bad for Sirius,” her friend confessed, covering her face with her hands in mortification.

“You _haven’t_!” Hermione exclaimed, her face turning red at the thought of what her friend must have gone through this week. “Why didn’t you say something!”

“I didn’t want to know,” Lily said from between her fingers, drawing her legs up onto the bed as though trying to hide behind her own body.

“Lily,” Hermione spoke in a firm voice as she reached over and drew her friend’s hands from her face. “I am _not_ in love with Remus Lupin.”

The thought would have been privately amusing except for the fact that, a month ago, saying ‘I am _not_ in love with Sirius Black’ would have been equally amusing, and now…

The beautiful green eyes that were so familiar to her were slightly moist, Hermione saw. As she looked into them, however, Lily’s face brightened and her dusty red eyelashes dropped down, winking slyly at Hermione.

“Who _are_ you in love with, then?”

“Too obvious,” Hermione said, dropping the redhead’s hands in mock disgust.

“I knew it!” Lily crowed.

“That’s _not_ what I meant by obvious,” Hermione objected, it being her turn to cover her cheeks from embarrassment. “I meant the _question_ —”

“Too late,” Lily said, crossing her arms primly—clearly not inclined to be at all gracious in her victory.

“You know,” Hermione said, standing to walk over to a nearby bed whose curtains partly protected her from reprisal, “James has to be the most patient and understanding man I know.”

Lily’s squeal of outrage and a barrage of pillows was the only reply.

=====

Sirius was glad to see Hermia and Lily’s forms climbing the winding staircase to his observation tower. The Gryffindor Quidditch Team was busily practicing, having reserved the field for that afternoon. Steffie Kirke appeared to be a top-notch Keeper, and James’ hollering ‘thank you, Sirius!’ every twenty minutes or so was starting to get on his nerves. He hoped that the appearance of the two young women would serve as a distraction for James, not to mention himself.

“Have some good dreams?” he asked Hermia as she approached him with a warm smile.

“What you’re really asking is, ‘were they about me?’” she teased, settling herself close enough to him to rest her arm on his outstretched leg. “You shouldn’t sit so close to the edge, Sirius—you could slide off!” He leaned over to kiss her cheek, the obvious concern in her voice making his day brighter.

“You’ll save me, Mia,” he said softly, wondering why her body became momentarily tense at the endearment. 

“Keep going like that and I’ll _shove_ you off the railing,” Lily teased, making a hypocrite out of herself the next moment by blowing a kiss to James when she spotted him flying nearby.

“If you want to live to see your eighteenth birthday, you won’t,” Hermione threatened, leaning against Sirius to better reach her wand. Her friend huffed in indignation, surprising the two of them by swatting Sirius in the back of the head with the book she’d been reading.

“You told!” she shrieked, hauling back to smack him again.

“I did no such thing!” Sirius protested, one arm protecting his head as the other hand quested behind him to try to wrest the thick book she was using as a weapon.

“Who then—oh!” Lily asked, whining slightly when he caught hold of the brandished book.

“It was Remus!” Hermione confessed, still mostly hidden from Lily under Sirius’ torso, as he’d leaned over her as protection when Lily began walloping him with the book.

“Here,” Sirius said mischievously as he handed the text back to his irate friend. “Go beat Moony with it, I give you my permission.”

“That’s not very nice,” Hermione said, looking cross at Sirius.

“Hush—if she goes away, we can snog.” He grinned irrepressibly.

Hermione raised an eyebrow.

“Or—we could discuss the Goblin Rebellions?” Sirius offered hopefully.

“What a choice,” she said sarcastically, delighting in his crestfallen expression as she reached for her book bag to lift out her History of Magic book just to see what his reaction would be.

======

“So, did she respond yet?”

Remus looked up in surprise to see a determined looking Lily Evans entering the common room, her question making no sense to him at first. She practically marched over to him, choosing to stand in front of him rather than take the chair he’d shoved out across from him with his foot. “The letter, Remus—did she?”

“How much did you read?” Lupin asked carefully. He thought it extremely unlikely that Hermione said anything to her about the letters, which meant it was more likely that Lily had somehow found the last one somehow.

“Just something about Vol—asking her if she had been threatened by Death Eaters,” Lily said, her chin lifting slightly as if she hated the fact that she couldn’t bring herself to say the name. Remus sighed, knowing his companion would assume it was out of worry, but in reality he was thankful. Lily clearly hadn’t read the beginning of the letter, or she’d be asking about the disparity in the name.

“It’s just a name, Lily,” he said to her gently, knowing that he was one of the few who thought of the word ‘Voldemort’ as ‘just a name.’ “Sit down, please—and no, she hasn’t responded.”

“What made you ask it, though?” she fretted, sitting at the edge of the chair he’d gestured to, but not relaxing at all.

“I was worried,” Remus answered truthfully. “You have to admit, she doesn’t act like someone who has been home-schooled her whole life.” He stopped himself from saying more—as much as he would love to share his concerns with someone, he didn’t want to betray the trust Hermione had given him.

“Do you think we should ask Professor Dumbledore about it?”

“I think that he would likely tell us that it is none of our business,” Lupin replied, his brows furrowing slightly. Lily seemed quite upset. “Is there something else that’s bothering you—you seem very on edge,” he said, reaching a long arm out to adjust the sleeve of her robe in a fussy, comforting action.

“I think she’s in love with Sirius,” Lily said, a little life coming back to her eyes. Remus couldn’t help being pleased to hear it—he knew how his friend felt, after all. He could tell why she’d responded in that particular way, however—Sirius had a penchant for trouble, and if he thought Hermione was being threatened, his reaction could be unpredictable.

Remus didn’t think this was worth worrying Lily further, however.

“It’s certainly not unrequited, that’s for sure,” Remus said lightly, hoping to direct their conversation away from the troubling nature with which it began.

“What’s unrequited?” Peter said, having just come down from the dormitories.

“My love for your dimples!” Remus stood and playfully tackled his shorter friend, pinning his arms at his sides and pinching his cheek affectionately.

“Argh!” Pettigrew grunted, unable to reach his wand. “You’re lucky there are other people in here,” he said in a grumpy voice, probably referring to his animagus form and how quickly it would have affected his escape.

“ _You’re_ lucky it’s not the full moon,” Remus said, releasing the other boy and grinning. “Don’t worry, though—I hear that rat meat is far too stringy to be edible.”

“Are the practices still going on?” Peter asked, narrowing his eyes at him for a short moment for the meat comment.

“Should be for a while yet—go on ahead, I have to finish this up before tomorrow,” Lily said, a slight blush on her face as she started to lay out her schoolbooks.

“Probably a good idea,” Remus said with a wicked grin, leaving the room with Peter and hoping he’d made Lily wonder just what they could possibly have planned for her birthday.

=====

“However did they manage _that_?” James asked as he saw Lupin and Pettigrew approaching the observation tower, their small figures waving at the sight of the three of them. It turned out that the plan had been to meet after the Quidditch practice, and Hermione was excited to be in on whatever they were going to think up for Lily’s birthday the next day.

“Manage what?” Sirius said, too lazy to move to look in the direction James was pointing.

“Lily’s not with them,” Hermione explained.

“She knows,” Sirius said as he stretched, nearly losing a shoe by curling his feet like a cat after a long nap.

“ _Accio shoe_!” Hermione said with a hint of disapproval in her voice.

“Thanks,” he said, reaching for it, only to find that she was busily tucking the shoe into her bag. “Hey!” he protested indignantly.

“No shoe privileges until you stop lolling all over the railing,” Hermione said in a voice that reminded her greatly of Molly Weasley.

“You’ve got it wrong, Hermia,” James said with a devilish grin, “it’s the _woman_ that’s supposed to be barefoot.” Peter and Remus had walked in on the conversation right then, both wearing expressions that said they weren’t sure if they wanted to know where that particular discussion started.

“Don’t even—” Hermione started, interrupted by a quietly spoken ‘ _Accio shoe_!’ from Sirius. She sighed. 

“Before you ask, I didn’t tie her up to prevent her coming with us,” Remus said, holding his hands up in a gesture of surrender. “Lily said she had classwork to do.”

“She _knows_ ,” Sirius reiterated.

“What did you do for her last year?” Hermione asked, wondering if this was some sort of tradition, and completely forgetting that a year ago, Lily Evans likely still hated James Potter’s guts. The four boys exchanged looks.

“He sent her a card,” Peter offered brightly, nodding at Potter.

“She sent _back_ a Howler,” James said with a shudder.

“It was the only time she ever got detention,” Sirius shut his eyes as he relived the memory. “James got the Howler in Transfiguration,” he explained. Hermione’s eyes went wide, picturing what the look on her Head of House’s face would be if she was interrupted by a screaming letter.

“ _Please_ ,” Potter said, wincing. “We don’t need to relive this.”

“You had to admire the craftsmanship, though—those are hard to make, even for adults,” Remus said mischievously.

“It didn’t help that he thinks she’s pretty when she’s angry,” Peter pointed out, ducking behind Lupin when James shot him an irate look. “She marched up to him the day after her detention with McGonagall and gave him a piece of her mind.”

“I can see _that_ happening,” Hermione said, imagining the dreamy, defensive look that must have been on Harry’s father’s face as Lily yelled at him.

“So—birthday plans?” James said, clapping his hands as though the sound would chase away the bad memories.

“I feel bad—I don’t know what she likes,” Hermione frowned.

“Don’t—you’ve only known us for a month,” Remus said practically. He turned to James to ask a question, but Hermione only heard Sirius, who had leaned over to speak softly in her ear.

“Only a month?” He brushed his lips against her temple, raising her blood pressure and body temperature a few increments.

“I feel like I’ve known you for years,” she responded sweetly, unable to look at him as she said it. Her heart twisted within her, as if it wasn’t sure whether to grieve or exult at the sentiment.

“How about a piñata?” James suggested with a bit of a leer, catching Hermione and Sirius’ attention once more.

“What you want to do with a blindfolded Lily is none of our business, Prongs,” Sirius said with a shake of his head, as though disavowing all knowledge of the black-haired boy’s actions.

“You’re forgetting she’ll get to beat him with a big stick,” Hermione pointed out. “She might like that idea.”

“All right—no piñata,” Potter agreed.

“I wish I’d known about this last week—I’d have bought her something in Hogsmeade,” Hermione said, laying her head on Sirius’ shoulder and missing the speculative look that her companions were sending each other.

“What would you have gotten her?” Sirius asked in entirely too innocuous a tone of voice. Hermione was instantly suspicious; furthermore, she knew exactly _why_ he’d asked her that.

“Something exceedingly girly, that you wouldn’t be caught near to by ten yards,” she stated firmly, lifting her head to give him a stern look. She did not want to be responsible for their being caught trying to sneak into Hogsmeade.

“I think she’s onto us,” James commented.

“I wouldn’t put _anything_ past you,” Hermione said, suddenly wondering if any of the pranks she knew about had occurred in their seventh year.

“Good, then you won’t be shocked when there’s a pitcher of Butterbeer and a bottle of Firewhiskey at the party tomorrow night.” 

To her surprise, the one who’d spoken was Remus. For some reason, Hermione had expected that he would have been the most law-abiding member of their foursome.

“Don’t you think that’s a little irresponsible, considering that she’s the Head Girl, and half of you can’t even legally _drink_ Firewhiskey yet?” she demanded.

“How do you know?” James asked her playfully.

“Oh, I know,” she said, choosing to look mysteriously superior.

“Are _you_ eighteen yet?” Sirius asked her with interest.

“Oh, Merlin—I’m probably halfway to nineteen by now,” Hermione said without thinking, earning herself some justified looks of confusion. She hadn’t really thought about the whole age thing, but when she really thought about it, by the time she went back home, she probably _would_ be halfway to nineteen.

“Care to elaborate?” James asked, his eyes alight with curiosity.

_Well, here goes nothing_ , she thought to herself, deciding that a little truth wouldn’t hurt in this case.

“Ever hear of a Time Turner?” she asked the Marauders.


	31. The Lily Bloomed in October

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At the time I wrote this I don't think we knew Lily's birthday, so please forgive any canon mis-match. Also, I just lost my mind laughing because Sirius used 'M'lady' in this but I'm changing it now because NOPE.

I don't wanna be adored  
Don't wanna be first in line  
Or make myself heard  
I'd like to bring a little light  
To shine a light on your life  
To make you feel loved  
_-Hamburg Song_

 

_October, 1977_

Hermione realized she’d made another snap decision. A line like that would never be forgotten, it couldn’t be covered over, and knowing how much as she loved these people, she knew she’d never be able to lie convincingly enough to keep them from being suspicious. She remembered something her father had told her about speaking with patients that he’d learned while in school. ‘There’s a difference between telling them the truth about their condition, and scaring the hell out of them,’ he’d said. Her father had then laughed, telling her that after hearing that, he was even happier with his choice of profession—no one wants to have to tell a patient their condition is dire while trying your hardest not to frighten them into an early grave, and dentists hardly ever had to give that sort of prognosis.

Hermione didn’t want to scare these young men, but she also didn’t want two of them to _hate_ her when their time lines finally merged again. She decided to go for the truth—an overly simplistic version of it, anyway.

“Yes, I know what a Time Turner is,” Remus said slowly; she could almost _see_ his mind working on overdrive, trying to put the pieces together. The others had nodded as well.

“Well—and this is supposed to be a secret,” Hermione cautioned, commanding their full attention now, “—but I was authorized to use one, for a few months, to catch up on my classes.” She realized as she spoke that the ad-libbed story was going to make a lot more sense than she’d expected—if her Muggle parents hadn’t wanted her to go to magical school and then changed their minds, she’d have had to catch up somehow. She’d told Remus she had been to Hogwarts before—why not choose to interpret that to mean she’d spent the summer here, using a Time Turner to give herself enough time to fit in a rudimentary six years’ worth of learning? It appeared that Lupin had the same conclusion she did.

“Is that why you said you’d been—” he stopped, unwilling to divulge any part of their private conversation even if it appeared that she was doing so already.

“—here before, yes,” she finished for him, an encouraging smile on her face that was more about self-congratulation on her quick-thinking and ingenuity than putting Remus at ease about their correspondence. She took a deep breath, hating to have to lie at all, but knowing it was a clever and mostly innocuous falsehood. “I spent this past summer _here_ , actually.”

All four of the young men arrayed around her on the bleachers made noises of surprise and understanding; no one looked disbelieving or suspicious. Hermione breathed an inner sigh of relief.

“That explains why you knew your way around so well,” mused Peter, who missed the quick look exchanged between herself and Lupin. _So more than just Remus noticed that_ , she thought to herself with a little shiver.

“And why she wasn’t on the train,” Sirius remarked.

“It’s a fairly big train, Sirius,” James said, tossing a tiny wad of parchment at his friend. “You can’t claim you saw _everyone_ that got on and off.”

“I’d have noticed,” Black said airily, managing to toss the wad of paper back into James’ hair.

“Do people our age say ‘balderdash?’" Hermione snorted.

“They do now!” Peter said with a grin.

“Right—Lily’s birthday?” Sirius said determinedly, after completely failing to catch Hermione’s attention by looking sulky.

“Last year Steffie Kirke tried to bake her a cake the _Muggle_ way,” Remus said, reminding Hermione that he and Lily had been friendly before she’d begun dating James.

“Tried?” Hermione couldn’t imagine what a purely magically brought-up person would do with a cake mix.

“Well, apparently you’re supposed to let it heat up gradually over a period of time…” Remus shrugged, leaving the outcome to her imagination. She shuddered, picturing an exploding or charred chocolate cake covering anyone near where Steffie had cast her charm.

“I’m sure you could do a better job,” Lupin assured her at her reaction. She smiled, but shook her head.

“I’d imagine she had plenty of Muggle birthdays at home,” Hermione pointed out. “After all, this will only be her _seventh_ magical one.”

“I never thought of it like that!” James exclaimed, looking excited. Hermione hadn’t either, though the more she thought about it, the more it seemed like a perfect and special way to celebrate Lily’s eighteenth birthday.

“Let’s treat it like her seventh,” she said, nearly bouncing with enthusiasm. “We can get a cake, and seven candles, and— _oh_ , do magical people even _do_ the candles thing?” Hermione asked, her voice faltering a little. The four boys in front of her were looking at each other and her with bewildered expressions on their faces. “With a candle for each year, and then you blow them out and make a wish at the same time, and—” Suddenly she noticed that Sirius’ shoulders were shaking slightly, and when she examined the others more closely, each showed similar signs of mirth. “You _do_ do the candle thing!” she said in exasperation, standing up to smack each of them in turn as they gave up the pretense and began laughing in earnest.

“Yes,” Remus admitted, his teeth flashing in the low sunlight as he grinned at her. “We do ‘the candle thing.’”

“Our candles are self-lighting, though,” James said seriously.

“And when you make a wish, it comes true,” Sirius added. Hermione looked at them all suspiciously, and then glanced at Peter. So did everyone else.

“Don’t bring _me_ into this,” he said, throwing up his hands in surrender, as if implying that he has no intention of adding to their elaborations on wizard birthday traditions—and then he added, “The last thing I wished for was an elephant.” The boys roared with laughter at his cleverness, and Hermione rolled her eyes.

“I hope you’re happy—now I can’t believe a thing any of you say,” Hermione said, stamping her foot in frustration.

“You believed us before?” James said in wonderment.

=====

The sunset’s last watercolor splashes of pink, gold, and purple were fading from the dusk sky when the five of them finally started back to the castle. The subject had turned back to Hermione’s alleged summer at Hogwarts, with the boys all speculating as to just how much time she’d added to her age by trying to fit six years of school into four months.

“Are you kidding?” Sirius was saying to Lupin. “The way _she_ studies, she’s probably older than Dumbledore!” Hermione nearly squealed in outrage, swatting at him with all her strength.

“You still _age_ when you’re back in time!” Hermione put her hands on her hips indignantly, trying desperately to ignore the strangeness of the conversation as she glared at Sirius.

“Are you still using it?” James asked. She shook her head as they resumed their trek across the courtyard of the school.

“Well, even if you were, you don’t look a day older than when I first met you,” Sirius said gallantly, causing Hermione to completely lose her balance and fall flat at his feet. Her shoulders shook with irrepressible, hysterical laughter, and for one brief, insane second, she was tempted to say to him, ‘Not a _day_ older, more like _four_ years!’

“Did you hurt yourself, Mia?” Sirius asked, his voice full of concern and remorse.

“No,” she choked out, his assumption that she’d injured herself merely adding to her giggle fit. Black knelt beside her, reaching out to feel for broken bones.

“She’s _laughing_ , Sirius,” James said with great amusement. Hermione stopped trying to hide it and rolled over, clutching her stomach from the pain of laughing so hard.

“Vixen,” Sirius said disgustedly, leaning over to grab her arm and pulling her into a sitting position. She couldn’t do much more than shake, tears starting to form at the corners of her eyes from the force of her giggles. Unexpectedly, her irate boyfriend leaned over and lifted her bodily onto his shoulder and started into the castle.

“Put me down!” she demanded, trying to keep her voice down so as not to attract attention to the spectacle. “And you three aren’t helping!”

Remus and Peter were staggering along behind them, hardly able to walk from the laughter, and James had given up entirely, leaning against the doorway fairly howling.

“You’re lucky I can’t take House points,” she threatened impotently, wishing she were Head Girl in this period of time as well as her own. Sirius just continued to carry her through the halls and along the normal route to the Gryffindor tower.

Hermione was just starting to wish that he wasn’t wearing robes over his clothing so she could enjoy the view of his backside when the familiar voice of Lily Evans stopped them all in their tracks.

“Please tell me she’s incapable of walking on her own?”

“ _She_ can take House points!” Hermione pointed over her shoulder triumphantly at Lily.

“She’s fine,” rumbled Sirius, the vibration of his voice felt through the parts of her body that were touching him doing interesting things to her insides. One by one, the other three Marauders tiptoed past Lily, Sirius, and Hermione and in through the portrait hole.

“Cowards!” she called after them spiritedly. “Put me _down_ , Sirius!”

“Well, she seems to be in perfect health,” Lily said to Sirius, conversationally. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“What?!” Hermione called, no longer caring who heard her. Sirius carried her effortlessly to a small alcove near the entrance to the Gryffindors’ private area.

“Sirius?” Hermione said in a very sweet voice.

“Yes?” he finally answered.

“Put me down?”

Instead of lifting her from his back and setting her down as though she were a child, Sirius lowered his shoulder slowly, holding his hands at her sides so that she slid down flush with his body, ending with her arms around his neck, the two of them leaning against a nearby wall.

“Ohhh,” she said, mentally and emotionally knocked off her feet by the sheer romanticism of the action.

“Worth it?” he asked, his grey eyes and his voice husky with emotion.

“I might need a little convincing,” she lied, barely recognizing the seductive tone as her own voice.

=====

The next morning, Hermione found herself at the door to the Head Girl’s private room (glad that she knew just how to get there, but knowing that the password wouldn’t possibly be the same thing) about to knock. She’d told the four boys that they’d known Lily far longer than she had, and that she felt it wasn’t quite fair that she got to be the first to wish the girl a happy birthday, but they had insisted. 

Hermione knocked confidently, knowing her friend well enough to be reasonably certain she’d be awake by now.

“Come in, Hermia,” Lily’s voice called, murmuring a quick word that Hermione couldn’t quite catch. They embraced quickly, and Hermione sat down on the embroidered bedspread as the other girl finished getting dressed.

“Am I that predictable?” she asked, referring to the fact that Lily had known who was at the door. The pretty redhead laughed.

“You’re the only one who would have knocked,” she explained, pulling half of her hair up into a silver dragon-shaped clasp. The sight of the delicate object reminded Hermione that she didn’t have anything to give Lily for her birthday. A thought struck her, but it was so bittersweet that she almost dismissed it out of hand. She and Lily sat in silence for a long moment listening to the calls of the birds outside the window, and finally Hermione decided she would make her choice based on what the other girl’s response was to her next question.

“Lily—what’s your favorite color?”

To her surprise, she saw her friend’s cheeks grow pink in the mirror. A short minute later Lily met her eyes shyly in the reflection.

“It’s so vain,” she said, unaware of how charming her discomfort was to her companion. “I love the color of my eyes—” her lashes swept down over them for a long minute before she turned to look at Hermione. “I always have loved green, _this_ green in particular,” she said, nodding her head at the mirror, “but I feel so narcissistic staring at my own eyes…”

The answer was perfect, and while Hermione assured Lily that she was in no way conceited or vain for her admiration, inwardly she was contemplating the gift she would provide for her friend’s birthday. It wasn’t something tangible, not an item, not even something that she could _tell_ Lily without confusing her—but someday, after she got home, Hermione Granger would be able to tell Harry Potter that whenever he wanted to see his mother’s favorite color, all he would have to do would be to look in a mirror.

=====

The Marauders, being Marauders, had the perfect place to hold a private birthday party. It was shortly after lunch when Sirius walked down the seventh floor corridor until he came to the strange tapestry of dancing trolls. He began to pace, concentrating on the thoughts of his friend Lily and where she would enjoy spending time on her birthday. When he went inside, he was secretly relieved that he hadn’t somehow (from what he could tell, anyway) sabotaged the intent somehow. Remus and James (the latter of the two having been told firmly that he was not allowed to ‘create’ the Room of Requirement for his own girlfriend, as his friends were slightly afraid of what they might encounter there) had headed off to collect some celebratory food from the house elves, Hermia had gone to fetch Lily, and Peter had rushed off to the library, claiming writer’s block and the need to finish up an essay for Transfiguration before tomorrow.

The windows were huge panes of glass overlooking the lake, causing Sirius to wonder if the _view_ was also part of the variable nature of the room. A merry fire blazed in one corner, small enough to be comforting but not large enough to make the room uncomfortably warm. Large cushiony chairs and a couch surrounded a table with many different layers of space on which to put food and drink. In one corner sat an intricate board of wizard’s chess. He was prevented from further exploration by a knock at the door.

“Come in, by all means,” he said, rushing over to help when he saw it was Remus and James with the food. Lily and Hermia arrived not long after, both exclaiming as they saw the lovely tapestries on the walls (something Sirius had missed entirely) and the glorious harp in the corner (that he would have sworn wasn’t there before the two girls had entered the room).

“You did a very good job,” Lily said, coming over and kissing him affectionately on the cheek. “No confetti or paper hats, even.”

“I _knew_ I forgot something!” Sirius exclaimed, shutting his eyes in annoyance as he saw a few tassled party hats and a noisemaker appearing on a table out of the corner of his eye. He and James escorted Lily to the most comfortable looking armchair and sat to talk with her, though Potter did most of the talking while he monitored Remus and Hermia’s progress with the cake. Lily was no fool, however, and she spotted their furtive activity after a few minutes.

“ _Please_ don’t sing,” she said in a voice that wasn’t entirely happy. “My sister always insisted that we sing, because she knew I hated it.” Hermia made a disgusted face.

“She sounds like a _delightful_ woman.” Her tone dripped sarcasm to an almost vicious degree. It made Sirius wonder what Lily might have shared with her about her family.

“She hates magic.” Lily’s voice was soft, but the pain in it was noticeable enough that James gravitated to her to envelop her in a warm hug. Sirius saw that Hermia had the same idea, but instead she came over to stand next to him, slipping her small hand into his with a familiarity that made his heart burst with pride.

“Wait a minute,” Lily said, this time sounding highly amused. “ _Seven_ candles? All that time on the cake and you still can’t count?”

Hermia stepped forward to explain, pleasing him even more when she didn’t release his hand when she did so.

“It’s your _magical_ birthday,” she said, her voice sounding at the same time firm and a little defensive. “You had eleven Muggle ones—” Suddenly Hermia let go of his hand as Lily Evans threw herself at the other girl and hugged her so fiercely that he was afraid Hermia’s ribs might crack. Both girls were crying now, and James was clearing his throat in the same philosophy as ‘having something in your eye.’ Lily was whispering something over and over, and finally she let go of Hermia enough that Sirius could discern what she was saying.

“Thank you SO much, this is just _perfect_ , thank you…”

Sirius realized that as a pureblood, he’d never really thought about what it might mean to someone with a Muggle background, going from no magic at all to a world where anything would seem possible. Having a ‘magical birthday’ suddenly made a lot of sense—a way of celebrating the fact that you _belong_ to something special. He wondered if it would be prudent to celebrate his break from his family in the same manner—though he’d been magical his whole life, being a part of the Potter family made _him_ feel special in a way he’d never felt before.

Sirius locked eyes with Remus and James and the three of them converged on Hermia and Lily, celebrating her eighteenth year of existence and her seventh year of being a witch with a huge group hug.


	32. Party Like It's 1977

  
Will we burn in heaven  
Like we do down here  
Will the change come while we’re waiting  
Everyone is waiting  
- _Witness, Sarah McLachlan_

 

Not long after they’d separated from the group embrace and begun the task of passing out pieces of cake, there came a tentative knock at the door.

“Come in, Peter!” James called out, his voice slightly muffled from his having stuffed it with a gigantic bite of cake not a minute before.

“ _That_ was attractive,” snorted Lily. James just scowled and looked around for his wand.

“I wouldn’t try it,” Hermione said with great amusement. “There’s a big chance it wouldn’t work properly—remember what Professor Flitwick says about pronunciation!” Potter just kept chewing, gesturing at Sirius with his wand as though trying to persuade him to hex Lily in his stead.

“Did I miss anything?” Peter looked slightly out of breath, as though he’d raced up all seven floors to make up for being late to the party.

“Cake’s all gone,” Sirius lied, remembering after he spoke that the room they were in had a propensity for wish fulfillment. Luckily the remainder of Lily’s ‘seventh’ birthday cake did not disappear from the table behind him.

“Happy birthday, Lily,” Pettigrew said with an honest smile.

“He’s lying, there’s still cake!” James had finally finished his overlarge mouthful of birthday cake, stopping to refute Sirius’ claim before filling his fork with another impossibly big bite.

“I care more about Lily than the cake!” Peter protested, setting down a small delicately wrapped present on the small table by the fireplace.

“Good thing _somebody_ does,” Remus dropped slyly. James mumbled something that sounded similar to ‘quiet, you,’ and continued chewing.

“So, why are you so late?” Sirius asked Peter bluntly. Peter looked disconcerted for a moment before answering.

“Ran into Malfoy in the library,” he finally said, causing Hermione to look up sharply. She wondered what the exchange had been like—Peter didn’t look as though he’d been in an altercation, and Lucius came across as someone who enjoyed a more subtle revenge than a fistfight.

“What did _he_ want?” Lily wondered.

“It’s not important,” the sandy-haired boy said dismissively. “ _This_ is, though—” he held up an impressively large bottle of Firewhiskey.

“Excellent.” Sirius looked positively delighted. Hermione had to laugh—she’d caught Lily’s eye and both women had been clearly on the verge of commenting on the fact that Sirius wasn’t old enough to legally drink it, but they chose not to say anything.

“This is good cake,” Peter said suddenly, after taking his first bite. He looked slightly confused as everyone in the room turned to look at James, who’d coincidentally just finished his.

“What?” Potter said, a trifle defensively. “It _is_.”

“Presents!” Sirius declared, sounding for all the world like a child on Christmas morning. Hermione found it hard to resist hugging him right there on the spot, it was so adorable. They moved to sit in the cushiony seats by the fire, Lily choosing the one closest to the low table on which sat the presents. Hermione couldn’t help but feel slightly guilty, as she had nothing to give her friend on her birthday. She made eye contact with Lily, and some of what she was thinking must have shown in her eyes, because the redhead tipped her head to the side and sent back an encouraging look, mouthing the words ‘it’s okay.’

Hermione pantomimed a relieved sigh, just as Sirius sat next to her, unselfconsciously putting an arm around her as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

And it was.

=====

Sirius couldn’t remember ever being this happy. He had his arm around a girl who he was finally admitting privately he was falling in love with, he was with the people he cared most about in the world, watching as Lily unwrapped the presents he and the other boys had snuck illegally into Hogsmeade to get—and he had a glass of Firewhiskey in his hand. He offered a sip to Hermia, but she wrinkled her nose.

“Too strong,” she explained.

“Ah!” Remus’ eyes had lit up, but sat silently for a long second, causing his companions to wonder what he could possibly be up to—until a full tea set appeared on the table in front of the fire. “It’s great in tea,” Lupin said, pouring himself and Hermia a glass. “Trust me.”

“He’s definitely trustworthy,” Lily said, wrapping her arms around the sweater the werewolf had given her. The silver material was woven through with a thread made from crushed Streeler shells, and thus the true color of the fabric was constantly variable, in a soft glow of greens, blues, and purples. “You’re very welcome,” Remus said, almost blushing.

“Oh _my_!” Hermia said when she took a sip of the tea laced with Firewhiskey.

“Good?” James asked, winking at Sirius when she wasn’t looking.

“Very.”

“Oh, Peter—thank you!” Lily exclaimed. She’d opened his small package to find a silver filigree hair clasp, similar to the one she was wearing—Sirius knew that Lily collected them, and thought it was clever of Peter to remember that.

“If…if you touch it with your wand and say ‘fire,’ it will breathe fake iridescent fire—at least that’s what the merchant told me,” Pettigrew said modestly. Sirius made a mental note to ask Peter where he’d gotten the clasp—his girlfriend was eyeing it with obvious admiration.

He watched as Hermia sat forward in anticipation when Lily beamed at Peter and did as he suggested. After a minute, the delicate mouth of the dragon opened slightly and let out a puff of colorful sparkles that landed on Lily and glowed for a short while before winking out. Everyone gasped their appreciation, causing Peter to look down in embarrassed pleasure.

“That is so lovely!” Hermia said, settling back against his arm and sending a delightful shock of awareness along his side where their bodies touched. He took another sip of Firewhiskey, liking the mixture of intoxicating sensations. “It’s a shame that something so dainty would never survive my hair,” she went on, touching her hand to the bushy mass self-consciously. Sirius leaned over to speak to her and was rewarded with a tantalizing whiff of wisteria as he did so.

“I like it when you wear it down, anyway,” he told her. Her warm brown eyes favored him with a loving look, though for a split second a shadow passed over her as she looked into his eyes. Sirius reminded himself that he had intended to speak to her again of the near terror she’d shown him the day she’d sent him that awful letter. Now wasn’t the time, however.

He kissed her briefly, surprised that even such a small contact sent his senses reeling. _Must be the Firewhiskey_ , he thought.

=====

Two hours later, he was _sure_ it was the Firewhiskey. Lily and Hermia had moved the table from in front of the fire and were sitting cross-legged on the hearth giggling like First Years. Remus was reclining on one of the armchairs, content to nurse a glass of the potent alcohol and observe the rest of them. James and Peter were playing Wizard’s Chess, which Sirius usually enjoyed watching when he wasn’t playing, but the girls were far more amusing.

Both were clearly drunk, and their discussion ranged from latest fashions (which Hermia clearly knew nothing about, something he found very endearing considering her propensity to study everything about _everything_ ) to Quidditch predictions (which had James quite distracted from his game, shouting out slurred pronouncements on how dire a chance Hufflepuff had this season). 

“My tea is gone!” Lily announced petulantly.

“Forget the tea,” James called from across the room. “Drink some more Firewhiskey!” Lily giggled.

“It’s a shame that I _hate_ Divination,” Hermia remarked as she took the empty teacup from her friend’s hand and stood up, unsteadily. Sirius wondered privately if she could even manage to reach the bottle, much less pour anything.

“Oh, you mean to read the leaves?” Lily snatched her cup back and looked into it with unfocused eyes.

Sirius put his feet up on the couch and stretched his arms behind his head lazily. He was suddenly _very_ glad that he’d chosen not to play chess—this was definitely going to be a lot more fun.

=====

Hermione admitted she was drunk. The sensation was far more interesting than she would have expected; everything she did had a heightened quality to it, as though she were observing herself through a Pensieve rather than experiencing it firsthand. She was glad that Lily had taken her teacup back; the second she stood up Hermione knew in complete certainty that she was far too intoxicated to walk anywhere. She settled back down and looked at her friend—Lily glowed from happiness and alcohol, her presents arrayed nearby, and again, Hermione felt a tang of guilt. She cast her mind around—as best she could—and had to admit that all she could offer the other girl was information, and even _that_ was impossible.

“You could pretend,” Lily said, handing her the teacup. Hermione took it and stared blankly at her friend. “To read it, whatever it’s called,” Lily waved her hand airily as she dismissed the fact that she couldn’t remember the correct term. “The tea leaves.”

Hermione stared at the cup dumbly for a long moment, before a tiny spark of an idea started to push through the haze of her consciousness. The only gift she had was _information_ … The more she thought about it, the more fun the idea appeared to her. She adopted a very dreamy, superior attitude, trying to channel the personality of Professor Trelawney— _has she even made her prophecy yet?_ Hermione tried to think back ( _forward, you dolt!_ ) to what year the prediction had been made, but all that came to her mind were her former professor’s wild hair and thick eyeglasses.

“Let me seeeee here!” Hermione said in a high-pitched voice that caused the chess players to take notice. “Ahh yes, dear,” she reached out and patted the floor beside Lily’s hand, blinking hard as the texture seemed different than she had expected. Hermione shook her head and continued her impression. “Your aura is pulsing! This cup tells me about a child!”

“Pssst!” Remus whispered, a deep laugh in his voice. “You’re not even _looking_ at the cup.” Hermione tossed her head rebelliously.

“Her aura is that strong,” she said haughtily, her tone defying him to object.

“I have an aura?” Lily sounded deeply impressed.

“Maybe you left your dragon on,” Sirius remarked, referring to the sparkling fire breath feature of Peter’s gift.

“ _You_ clearly have no gift,” Hermione scoffed, gazing deeply into the muddle of tea dregs in Lily’s cup. Privately, she thought that being drunk helped her in pretending to be Sybil Trelawney immensely. “Yes, yes—it’s right here,” Hermione pointed to the interior of the cup. “You have a _very_ gifted son, you should be very proud!”

Hermione’s words and the true meaning of them began to work as a sobering influence, taking the giddy edge from her buzz and replacing it with a tinge of melancholy. She didn’t let it show, however, wanting desperately to say these forbidden things to her friends, and knowing the façade of drunkenness was the perfect camouflage. 

“A son, eh?” Harry’s godfather said, shooting a sly look over his shoulder at James.

“Good job!” Peter reached out as if to clap his friend’s back, but James held up his hands quickly.

“Let’s not rush things,” he said, pointing at the chessboard to refocus Pettigrew’s attention.

“Don’t mind them, my dear—they don’t appreciate the Art of Divination,” Hermione said with irony that no one in the room could possibly appreciate. “Your son—he has your eyes, my dear,” Hermione said, hoping the choke in her voice could be construed as all part of the act. “He can _fly_ exceedingly well—Quidditch Captain!”

“ _See_ ,” Peter said.

“You’re in trouble, James—competition!” Sirius teased at the same time as Peter. Hermione turned to glare at the boys, and caught the broad grin that James was sending toward Lily. His girlfriend was blushing furiously, catching James’ expression and the meaning behind it. Hermione could see with perfect clarity that both of them were thinking that the future she was predicting wasn’t too bad, however crazy a manner in which the information was being presented.

“So,” Remus said in the dry tone that Hermione recognized as the one he used when he was about to drop an outrageous statement with no fanfare, “does that cup have a clue as to who the father is?”

Lily giggled as James roared with outrage, and Peter put his head down to shake with laughter. Lupin looked rather pleased with himself, even as Hermione looked around for her wand, desperately wanting to hex his shoes too tight or the arms of his chair into ferrets just to wipe the self-satisfied grin off of his face.

When she found it, however, all thoughts of hexing flew from her mind, and she didn’t even notice Lily rising to her feet and winding her way to where James and Peter were still playing chess, smacking Lupin sharply on the shoulder before he stood up to join her in watching the game. Her wand was sitting next to Sirius on the couch, and he was watching her intently, no trace of amusement left, just a steady warm regard. She felt drawn in by his gaze; the feeling of unreality began to fade as she moved across the floor to kneel beside the couch. Sirius leaned forward, placing his elbows on his knees and holding his hands out for hers. 

Placing her hands in his felt like the most natural action in the world, as well as a sort of acknowledgement of something between them. She nodded, barely knowing why, and in response, Sirius drew her between his knees to embrace her. With her head resting on his chest listening to the swift, strong beating of his heart, and his arms cradling her to him, it was the most difficult thing Hermione ever faced not to tell him she loved him.

=====

> _Dear Hermione,_
> 
> _It was Lily’s birthday, today. Is it horrible for me to want to talk about Sirius when I should be relating the events of her party for posterity? Though, to be fair, I don’t believe I will ever forget that party, and someday I will probably want to bury my head in the sand and not face the emotions I’ve felt today…_
> 
> _I can’t help but wonder if the tragedy that happened in the past hasn’t somehow warped my appreciation of happiness. Harry felt it, too—looking at that scrapbook of his, and thinking about madness and despair and death and betrayal instead of looking at a picture of a wedding. Ohhh now I’m so angry I can barely write, and I don’t even know –what- I’m angry at. Situations? Voldemort? Fate? I don’t know._
> 
> _I’ve broken the most solemn promise I’ve ever made to myself—but in my defense, I never understood the potency of love! I want to make another promise, and this one is even MORE important, but I can’t even be sure I can keep it…_
> 
> _I can’t tell him I love him._
> 
> _I have to leave. He deserves so much, so much that I know he’ll never get, unless he fell in love in between graduation and Azkaban_
> 
> _—and the very thought boils my blood! How horrid is this, I’m half jealous (all right, more than half), but half of me is sitting here going ‘oh, how interesting, so THAT is what insane liver-gnawing jealousy feels like!’ I have got to be the most mental person in any time period._
> 
> _What I’m trying to say is, some people deserve love. ALL people deserve love. People like Sirius especially—but he doesn’t deserve to have his heart broken, to spend the few free years he is going to get wondering where I’ve gone—_
> 
> _Oh, this is ridiculous, because now I’m all ‘he doesn’t love me, he can’t possibly’ but I KNOW him and I’ve seen it in his eyes and I don’t think I’ve ever been more frightened in my life or more happy and I’m afraid if I stop writing I’ll wake up and it will all have been a dream but I’m running out of ink._
> 
> _Thank Merlin that this thing is going to be locked up and hidden away. They’ll cart me off to St. Mungo’s if they read this rubbish._

=====

A few hours after lunch, Albus Dumbledore walked idly along the hallway on the seventh floor, having just come from the Gryffindor common room. He’d intended to wish the Head Girl a happy birthday, but she was not to be found in the library, the Quidditch Pitch, or the Gryffindor tower. He didn’t mind the exercise, he liked Miss Evans very much, and had been delighted to see that the rest of the faculty had agreed with himself and Minerva on her appointment as Head Girl.

The journey to the Gryffindor tower had been one he hadn’t experienced in quite a while, and as he turned to head back to his office, Dumbledore passed the odd tapestry chronicling the attempts of Barnabas the Barmy to teach trolls ballet. He thought he heard laughter, but dismissed it as coming from one of the paintings or echoes from the students in a nearby hallway. He almost changed his mind, almost turned to find out where it was originating from, and he stopped in his tracks, finding the impulse to be slightly out of character.

Albus decided that what he really needed was to have some good fun, the kind that engendered the sort of laughter that he could still faintly discern. He shrugged, wondering if it was time to take a trip down to the Three Broomsticks, just to see what Madam Rosmerta would say upon seeing him walk through the door. Dumbledore started along the all again, whistling merrily as he contemplated the possibility of a warm Butterbeer in the company of the denizens of Hogsmeade.

Behind the cheerfully walking figure of the Headmaster of Hogwarts, an ornate wooden door shimmered into existence across from the tapestry he was just standing in front of.

 

_A/n: Streelers are a type of snail whose shells change color by the hour. There’s an entry for them in[the HP-Lexicon](http://www.hp-lexicon.org/bestiary/bestiary_s.html#streeler) if you’d like to check them out!_


	33. Complications

  
“By three methods we may learn wisdom: first, by reflection, which is noblest; second, by imitation, which is easiest; and third, by experience, which is the most bitter.”  
- _Confucius_

 

Peter lay in bed with the curtains drawn and stared at the carvings on the wooden bedpost, trying to empty his mind enough to get to sleep. Unfortunately all he could think about was the odd encounter he’d had with Lucius Malfoy in the library—and _that_ wasn’t ‘drift off to sleep’ material at all.

He’d been poring over a very old volume that described the efforts a twelfth-century man had gone through while trying to perfect a method of Transfiguration from plant to animal. The essay that was due that Monday was mostly about theory, with each student choosing their own subject on which to write. James and Sirius had, predictably, fought over the fact that they’d both wanted to write about Animagus transformations, but Peter had decided to go for a more subtle approach. The essay itself had been going well, but Peter did not like working under pressure, and knowing that the rest of his friends were in the Room of Requirement for Lily’s birthday had made completing his task a lot more difficult than it should have been. Then, Lucius had shown up.

> _“I require the use of that book.”_
> 
> _Peter looked up to see that Malfoy was actually holding his hand out, as if he fully expected to be handed the dusty volume straightaway. Peter would have been upset enough in the first place—but the added knowledge that Lucius almost certainly did NOT need the exact text that he was using for his essay exacerbated his annoyance._
> 
> _“Go away,” he said, the stress of his deadline and his lateness to the party causing him to be more blunt than he normally would have been._
> 
> _“Not without the—” When Malfoy paused, Peter moved his parchment up slightly to cover the book’s title from the other boy’s view. He then looked up at the Slytherin student with an expression that told Lucius exactly what he thought of him. The other boy sneered to cover up the fact that he’d been attempting to find out the name of the book he’d asked for._
> 
> _“I know you aren’t even in this class, so why not go harass some First Years and leave me to my essay,” Peter suggested bluntly._
> 
> _“Isn’t it our little Head Girl’s birthday today?” Malfoy asked, ignoring Peter’s implication that he liked to bully younger students. “Why aren’t you up in your filthy little common room plying her with Firewhiskey?”_
> 
> _Peter had to remind himself that what Lucius liked most was when people fought back; the insulting innuendo in the blonde boy’s voice had started his blood pumping in anger. If it had been anyone else, he’d have likely earned himself a polite request from the librarian to stop creating a scene after expressing his vigorous defense of his friend’s good name._
> 
> _“If I finish this now, I will have the rest of the day to myself. It’s called preparation—not that I’d expect YOU to understand that.” Peter was quite proud of that one—he thought even Remus might not have been able to say those words with as much quiet dignity. He should have expected that Lucius wouldn’t give up so easily, however._
> 
> _“But—you appear to be the only one here,” the pureblood wizard said, settling himself almost regally across the table from Peter, an expression of incredulous confusion on his face. “Surely your friends could have assisted you with your task? Made the experience that much quicker?”_
> 
> _Peter tried to ignore the twinge in his heart the other boy’s words generated. He reminded himself that it was his own pride that usually prevented him from asking the others for assistance, and after so many years at school together, they probably just assumed that he worked at his own pace. Still, it did hurt when James and Sirius would finish their parchments with a flourish and pat him on the back as they headed out for some sort of recreation; when Remus asked him polite questions about subject matter but never offered any insight as to an essay’s completion._
> 
> _The fact that someone like MALFOY had recognized his internal bitterness made it twice as painful. Peter loved his friends—defended his friends…but sometimes, their casual confidence in him hurt more than if they’d offered their help in a way that implied he wasn’t competent to do anything. It was as if they assumed that he couldn’t possibly NOT be brilliant—and Peter knew he wasn’t. He was all right with that fact, but every time it was evident that one of the other Marauders expected him to be, his heart hurt ever so slightly._
> 
> _“I take pride in my own work,” Peter finally said, turning a page in his book and finding an excerpt that he’d been searching for since he’d arrived at the library. He leaned forward, trying to make out the faded text enough to copy it down for his own reference. As soon as he took his hand away to reach for his quill, however, Lucius reached across the table and shut the book in an almost angry gesture, holding it still with a hand that sported a death’s head insignia._
> 
> _Peter stared at the ring, his anger over Malfoy’s vindictive action replaced by a frightened fascination—the symbol was eerily similar to that used by the rogue opposition group, the Death Eaters. All that was missing was a snake—and Lucius was a Slytherin._
> 
> _“That sounds more like a Ravenclaw virtue, to me,” Lucius said in a low voice that nonetheless fairly crackled with intensity. “Aren’t you Gryffindors supposed to value friendship above all else?” Peter knew he was being manipulated, knew that Lucius meant him to be angry—but he could not wrap his mind around WHY. He had expected a confrontation, but he’d thought it would have been versus Lucius himself, not his own inner conflicts and resentments brought forth by the other boy’s sly comments—comments whose intent was still unclear._
> 
> _“Slytherins value ambition, don’t they?” Peter retorted, wishing he had more confidence to inject into his tone—but he’d been genuinely affected by Malfoy’s insinuations. “What is there to be gained from harassing me about FRIENDSHIP, of all things?”_
> 
> _Malfoy released the book and stood, all intensity gone from his demeanor as though he’d never spoken in anything other than his normally cold voice. Peter still heard the potency of the previous minutes’ conversation in the blonde boy’s last statement, however._
> 
> _“Slytherins aren’t the only ones with ambition. You should remember that.”_

Even after going over the encounter in his mind three times, five times, ten times, still he could not fathom what Malfoy had intended to accomplish. If it had been anyone else, Peter would have just shrugged the conversation off as a weak attempt to unnerve him, to establish a dominance—but he knew Lucius, had observed him as he had done all his fellow students. Lucius made plans. Lucius never did things without a reason. Lucius…was keeping him from getting to sleep.

Sighing with frustration, Peter Pettigrew rolled over and covered his head with his pillow, wishing he’d come back from the last Hogsmeade weekend with a sleeping draught instead of jellybeans.

=====

The day had dawned dreary and wet; the atmosphere seemed to think that the thick, low fog that covered everything was simply not enough moisture, and had provided a misting rain that clung to everyone and everything that ventured outdoors. The last time she’d gone out in weather like this, nearly all of the contents of her book bag had become damp and some things had been ruined, so Hermione was grateful for the fact that she didn’t have any reason to leave the castle for class. She was quite proud of her Transfiguration essay, after all. It was, predictably, longer than Professor McGonagall had requested, but she justified that as she always did, knowing that it was always better to be thorough.

“Bad luck for Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw,” observed James upon feeling the chill wind that blew through the windows as the post owls arrived at breakfast. Hermione looked up from her thick roll of parchment to catch Sirius stealing a morsel of food from her plate.

“There’s an entire _platter_ of those just across the table!” she protested, trying to be unmoved by his expression of innocence.

“I didn’t want to disturb your reading,” he said in a falsely contrite voice.

“You’re hopeless,” Hermione stated, turning to the boy seated across from her. “Why is it bad luck?”

“Care of Magical Creatures,” James replied, tossing the tightly wrapped package of cookies his mother had sent him in the air and catching it deftly. “—Monthly lesson.”

“’Serve you right if you dropped those,” Lily commented.

“Wouldn’t happen.” James thrust out the hand holding the container and started tilting it sideways—even at a very steep angle, the cookies stayed put.

“It’s a Quidditch spell,” Remus said quietly in explanation. “You shouldn’t be using it all the time, James—there could be lasting effects.”

“I wouldn’t call heightened dexterity a bad side effect, Moony,” Sirius remarked.

“You will when everything sticks to your hand as if it were coated in glue,” Hermione pointed out. “I’ve—”

She glared at the friends surrounding her at the table as they all finished with her, “—read all about it.” Hermione looked from face to face, trying to decide which one of the five to focus her exasperation on. When she turned away from an apologetic-looking Remus to see James wildly gesturing at Sirius as though to wave him off, she turned to see what her boyfriend was up to. Since they’d begun officially dating, Lily had traded her seat beside Hermione for Sirius’ seat next to James—something Hermione enjoyed because of the physical proximity, but found frustrating due to Sirius’ naturally mischievous nature.

“No adverse effects yet,” Sirius said cheerfully, repeatedly patting Hermione’s shoulder as though expecting her robes to stick to his hand.

“You’re not clever,” she informed him.

“Whatever did I do without you to point these things out?” he asked affectionately, draping his arm over her shoulder and leaving it there for the remainder of the meal.

=====

It appeared that Professor McGonagall had a lot on her mind that day, as she simply assigned the class a reading from their textbooks after collecting the essay assignment. Hermione stared at the pages, having read them during one of the long lonely nights she’d spent as a member of Slytherin house. She watched the professor, noting that the woman had not changed very much in the twenty years that had spanned between now and when Hermione had last seen her in her own time.

The more she watched the professor, the more she realized that her Head of House looked drawn, worried. Hermione realized with a jolt of surprise that she was continuing to view _her_ past, this time frame, as a static thing—but the threat from Voldemort hadn’t begun the year Harry had been born, nor had it really ended the day Lily and James were to die. The Order of the Phoenix most certainly hadn’t simply *poofed* into existence, and as far as she was aware, Minerva McGonagall had always been one of the key players in the movement against the Death Eaters. Her teacher probably looked tired because there was a lot to do, and not many people that could be trusted to do it.

She wished she could help. The fact of the matter was, however, that other than knowing exactly what it was that would cause Lord Voldemort to lose his powers—and that wasn’t something you could just walk up and perform on him like a typical charm or jinx—Hermione just didn’t _know_ much. Even with the efforts she and the rest of the DA had taken over the past couple of years, that had been _preparation_ , not intelligence gathering.

Hermione realized that the best person for that job had likely not even made his fateful choice to join with Voldemort yet.

“Miss James—may I speak with you, please?”

The professor’s voice pulled Hermione out of the reverie she’d slipped into, causing her to blush and wonder if she had been staring at Professor McGonagall or perhaps had done or said something while daydreaming. The tone of the older woman’s voice sounded pleased rather than disturbed, however. 

As Hermione stood to comply with her teacher’s request, she shrugged down at Lily who’d given her a questioning look—and then she noticed that the parchment in front of her, which had been blank when she’d stood up, now had words on it.

_Teacher’s Pet._

Hermione turned to scowl at James and Sirius before crossing the room to stand next to Professor McGonagall’s large oak desk. _They have no idea_ , Hermione thought to herself, recalling the mentor/pupil relationship she would share in the future with the woman in front of her. The 1977 version was beaming with a familiar-looking pride, and Hermione realized that she must have called her up to praise her essay.

“Miss James, I can’t say enough about the work you’ve done on this!” the grey-haired woman was almost humming with excitement as she spoke, Hermione saw. “It is truly inspired—you must have done some research before, on this subject,” McGonagall asserted, lifting the rolls of parchment to examine them again through her thin spectacles.

“Yes, I have, actually,” Hermione admitted. She’d been interested in the correlations between names (noodle to poodle, armchair to armoire) and the ease at which Transfiguration took place for those types of examples. Her essay discussed whether there was a magical link between similarly named items (with a rather well-thought out section on whether this held true for other languages, such as French), or simply the way the witch or wizard _thought_ while performing the spell. Fully half of her essay discussed whether as a Muggle-born, she was successful at Transfiguration because she had a different way of thinking, or because the spells _themselves_ were indeed linked to the names of the items involved.

“Well, this essay is worthy of being published,” Professor McGonagall said in a firm voice, completely missing the look on Hermione’s face. She went on about how she knew one of the editors at a well-known magazine, continuing to rave about what a fantastic job she thought Hermione had done on her research. 

By the time she was done, Hermione was completely frantic—all her attempts to assure the professor that it wasn’t worthy of such an honor fell on deaf ears, and short of lying and telling McGonagall that it wasn’t her own work (something Hermione didn’t think she could bring herself to do), it seemed as though there wasn’t anything to be done. She plastered a smile on her face, thanked the still-gushing professor, and walked back to the table she shared with Lily, completely flabbergasted at the extent of the mess she’d gotten herself into. Notwithstanding the fact that she’d want her research to be considered _hers_ , and not under a pseudonym from the past, Hermione knew that her theories were considered progressive in her _own_ time. 

The magical world and its denizens seemed completely content with their use of magic, hardly caring how or why it worked, something that drove Hermione to distraction. She’d started work on the essay the day it had been assigned, remembering some of the publications and textbooks she’d gotten her initial ideas from in her own time—and they were all there when she’d checked in this time. It was as if magical theory was nonexistent—or such a stagnant discipline that nothing had been added to it in at least twenty years. What would introducing her conclusions change between now and then?

The words ‘teacher’s pet’ were still displayed on the first sheet of parchment that she saw when she sat down, and Hermione covered it with her arms and laid her head down on them, not having any idea what to do. _Run to Dumbledore, and confess that you can’t seem to keep yourself from changing things, just like you told him would happen!_

She knew it was likely the best course of action, but the thought of having to admit that her weakness didn’t lie in _protecting her friends_ , but trying to do well on her _schoolwork_ just made her feel miserable, utterly miserable.

“Are you all right?” Lily sounded worried, and as Hermione’s racing thoughts slowed and her blood stopped rushing in her ears, she started to hear the classroom sounds again. She recognized Sirius’ voice from behind her, speaking with James in urgent tones, and when she tossed a look over her shoulder at him, he looked very concerned. She mouthed ‘I’m fine,’ but he didn’t look convinced.

Class adjourned shortly afterwards, and Hermione almost had to laugh as each of her friends converged on her as they left, demanding to know what she’d been called up for. When she explained, Hermione couldn’t help but be cheered by their reactions, they were so perfect—Lily had hugged her, Peter had looked impressed, Remus had remarked that praise from their Head of House was very valuable, Sirius had looked incredibly proud of her—and James had asked her for her autograph.


	34. Please, No Autographs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas and happy holidays! Welcome to everyone who have come upon this story in the past week! It's been a truly amazing experience to see people encouraged and being encouraging about writing!

  
I was lost, I was lost  
Crossed lines I shouldn’t have crossed,  
I was lost, oh yeah.

I was scared, I was scared,  
Tired and under prepared,  
But I wait for it.  
- _In My Place, Coldplay_

 

Albus Dumbledore looked at the brilliant, well thought out essay in front of him, and sighed. He’d gotten two nearly simultaneous owls, one from an almost frantic Hermione Granger letting him in on the situation, and the other from a deeply impressed Minerva McGonagall, asking him if there was any special paperwork required for submitting a student’s work to be published. He was glad he’d gotten the messages in that order—he had no other pressing business at the time, and could very well have filled out the necessary paperwork for his Deputy Headmistress without realizing what a mess he would be putting into motion.

The tentative knock at his door reminded him that he’d asked Miss Granger to speak with him after dinner.

“I’m terribly sorry, Headmaster,” she started without preamble, her face twisted into such a picture of worry that he couldn’t help but get to his feet to lead her to a chair, knowing that she was the type of person for whom physical contact was comforting.

“There is no need to be so anxious, my dear,” he assured her, a gentle hand still resting on her shoulder. “The only people so far to have read your excellent essay are myself and Professor McGonagall.”

“So, she hasn’t—”

“No, my dear, no copy of it has left the castle.” Seeing her body relax, Dumbledore moved around his large desk to settle himself on his own chair, slipping his stockinged feet into the comfortable slippers he’d left beneath it. When he glanced back up at the student seated across from him, however, he saw that though she had lost the desperate anxiousness, she still seemed very much on edge.

“I just feel so _awful_ ,” the girl said with an odd catch in her voice. She looked up at him, and the hollow expression of guilt plainly displayed there sent a red flag of warning to his brain. “I’ve tried to be so careful…” Hermione pushed the chair back and began to pace in a tight circle in front of his desk, an action he recognized from her first day at the castle. Clearly Miss Granger was very concerned about something, but he didn’t think it was entirely related to her class work. He didn’t speak, knowing that the best way to discover what she was so upset about would be to wait for her to reveal it in her own way. By the time she finally spoke, it was almost as if she were speaking to herself, and he enhanced the feeling for her by murmuring the words of the spell that made him unobtrusive. 

“Every time I speak, I have to make sure that I don’t reference something that doesn’t exist yet,” she began, shaking her head at the wall as though trying to persuade it of her honest intentions. “Each time my friends joke about something, I have to ask myself if I can laugh, or if I’m not supposed to be in on what’s funny.” Hermione stopped in the center of the room, her fists clenched at her sides, head tipped back, eyes shut—she was almost shaking with the force of her emotions. “Every time I look into his— _their_ eyes, I remember all the things I know, the good _and_ the bad—and, hard as it’s been, I’ve stayed true to my promise.” She seemed to remember that she wasn’t alone, and turned to face him with tears in her eyes.

“What does it say about me that I won’t allow myself to change the bad things I know will happen—but I’ll risk changing the future to do well on a _class assignment_?” Hermione asked, miserably.

“It tells me that you very sensibly separate your academic life from your personal life,” he told her truthfully. Before he could elaborate, however, he heard the sounds of another person on the stairs outside his office. The noise distracted him from something she’d said, something he had thought was important—but the instant that the heavy door to his office was opened, he lost that train of thought.

=====

“Albus, I simply can’t wait any longer—oh, hello Miss James!” Her Head of House looked slightly harried, and with a sinking feeling Hermione realized that she had the troublesome original essay in her hand. “I’m sorry to interrupt,” the older woman said, the excitement still causing her voice to shake slightly.

“I was just asking Hermia about the work done on this assignment,” Professor Dumbledore said in a slightly severe tone. The expression on her favorite teacher’s face as she looked from Hermione to Dumbledore nearly broke her heart.

“There isn’t—there’s no _problem_ with it, surely?” McGonagall sounded almost betrayed. “I was looking forward to working with Miss James on expanding it…” 

Hermione was surprised—she hadn’t thought her theories were all that innovative. She hadn’t seen her teacher look that excited over _anything_ —except perhaps Quidditch; Hermione wondered if perhaps the professor was looking for something to focus on, other than the troubling events that had begun to happen, as the Death Eaters began causing mischief.

She looked at Professor Dumbledore, who had locked eyes with Professor McGonagall. He appeared to be struggling with a decision, as his mouth opened several times as though starting to speak, before he changed his mind. Finally the old man sighed deeply, and spoke.

“Minerva, there’s something you should know.”

=====

> _Dear Hermione,_
> 
> _Well, Professor McGonagall knows about my situation, now. She was so excited about the possibilities of my theories…but so disappointed when Professor Dumbledore told her that he couldn’t allow her to send it out—and I just couldn’t bear the thought of lying to my favorite teacher and saying that I’d plagiarized it! I didn’t know what to do, and I think the Headmaster could tell that she was so desperate for something POSITIVE to work on…_
> 
> _I can already see how ‘the war’ is taking its toll, and I know the timeline enough to know that the very worst is yet to come! I’ve been so concerned about how bleak the future is for the Marauders and Lily that I didn’t even think about how it affects people like Professor McGonagall and Professor Dumbledore—even Professor Slughorn! He wasn’t a teacher when I started school, so clearly something happened between now and when Professor Snape (how strange does THAT sound, now? When a month or so ago, I couldn’t even imagine calling him ‘Severus?’) started to teach here._
> 
> _Trust dear McGonagall to immediately worry about whether my trip to the past injured me physically somehow (something that neither I nor the Headmaster admittedly thought about at ALL), and how the change of such a big time jump might have affected my use of magic._
> 
> _I have to admit, here—telling the professor that I’m just as talented here as I am in my own time felt GOOD._
> 
> _Once she’d established that there was no permanent damage from my journey, I could tell that Professor McGonagall started to realize the implication of my essay being written NOW, rather than twenty years in the future. I could almost see the sheer disappointment in her face—as someone that takes pride in her work, she knows that I would, as well, and publishing something like this (notwithstanding the issues from making it known ‘ahead of its time’) under my own name would be impossible._
> 
> _I’m going to have to think about this some more—I would almost go as far as saying she looked heartbroken that she might not get a chance to explore those ideas further (okay, I have goosebumps—or whatever they’re called in the wizarding world…I don’t think I’ve ever found out if the word is different…interesting!)—at the thought that something –I- came up with has someone I respect so much as excited as I am!_
> 
> _I’m so glad I take this book with me everywhere. By the time I end up spending the evening with Sirius and Lily and James and all of them, my head will be so upside down and my heart inside out and I’ll have forgotten it all._
> 
> _Except that the way they make me feel is…wonderful. Just felt like sharing._

=====

“So, are you going to be famous?” James asked, the second she walked through the portrait hole after her meeting with her professors. Hermione shook her head at him fondly and made her way to her usual spot.

“Ugh,” Lily said with a grimace, “you’re starting to sound like Professor Slughorn.”

“I thought you liked him?” Peter questioned.

“I do, but he is awfully concerned with celebrity,” the redhead clarified. “He keeps trying to encourage poor Juli to sing, every time he catches sight of her in our club meetings.”

“Ohh, you’re right!” Hermione realized. “—Juli’s last name is Warbeck, isn’t it?”

“Celestina’s granddaughter or something, yes,” Sirius said with a nod. “She was always too shy for me.” Hermione raised an eyebrow, pausing her quill as she eyed her boyfriend teasingly.

“We should change the subject,” James said in a stage whisper to Remus. “Otherwise she’ll find out that Sirius has an opinion on _all_ the girls.” Both boys grinned at her, and she found she absolutely could not keep her severe expression in the face of their impudence.

“ _Does_ he now?” Hermione raised both eyebrows now, setting down both her quill and her textbook for added emphasis. Sirius gulped, and she wished she could tell him just how attractive his nervousness was without the words turning it instantly into lazy confidence at his effect on her.

“ _Oh_ , yes,” Potter said, winking at her and patently ignoring Sirius’ angry scowl. “Apparently, he and Steffie—SOOO, how’s about that autograph?”

James had switched his statements mid-stream with the skill of an auctioneer—the very second that he’d been hit in the face with one of the small crimson cushions that adorned the Gryffindor-themed couch that he and Sirius both sat on.

Sirius didn’t even bother to look innocent.

By the time Hermione had finished laughing, her stomach hurt incredibly and her face hurt from the constant smiling. The others were in stitches as well; poor Lily could barely stand up when she left to go on her hallway rounds, a part of her duty as Head Girl.

“I’m not signing _anything_ you give me, James,” Hermione finally said, her voice slightly hoarse after her bout of giggles. “I don’t care if it’s wrapped in a Sneakoscope—I don’t trust you.” The boy in front of her pressed a hand to his chest as though mortally wounded.

“I’m hurt.”

“You’ll get over it,” she sassed back.

“Hermia, 1—James, 0,” observed Remus quietly from his reclined position on the floor.

“I can’t believe you’re going to deny me the chance at fame and fortune, for having known you while at school.” James refused to let it go. “I bet it would be worth a lot of galleons, your signature,” he said with cunning flattery.

“Right—so why should I just _hand_ you the chance to make that much money?” Hermione asked him sweetly, flipping open her textbook again and trying not to change her facial expression as her thoughts strayed to dangerous areas— _What WOULD my signature be worth?_ Reality set in a minute later—it _should_ be absolutely worthless, as no one ought to find out that she’d spent time in the past. 

Her internal dialogue was causing her to miss some amusing interchanges, however. James had reached for her hand as though to kiss it, and Sirius had drawn his wand, playing up the ‘protective boyfriend’ angle to epic proportions. James, not to be outdone, had drawn his wand as well, and the two boys were facing off in front of the couch they’d been lounging on previously. Their behavior was starting to draw attention from the other Gryffindors in the common room, something that made Hermione groan inwardly—neither boy would be able to resist the chance to show off, now that they had an audience.

“Are you challenging me to a duel?” Potter asked melodramatically, holding one hand palm-forward beside his head, the other making an intricate wand swish in the space between himself and Sirius. He’d jumped forward in the midst of this action, and his position was precariously perched atop the rickety table in front of their usual study space.

“James!” Remus had scrambled to his feet, partly to avoid being trampled, and partly to (Hermione hoped, anyway) assert his authority as a Gryffindor Prefect. She breathed a sigh of relief to see that Black and Potter wouldn’t potentially end up in the hospital wing—but Lupin’s next words scratched that assumption. “Feet off the table.”

“Remus!” Hermione couldn’t _believe_ he hadn’t been any more severe than that.

“Two handsome men fighting for your honor, and you’re objecting?” Sirius said with an admittedly dashing flick of his robes.

_Great Merlin, I’ve got Harry’s father and Sirius Black fighting over me…_ Hermione realized. Her journal was going to be _busy_ tonight!


	35. --and No Flash Photograhy!

  
More strange than true. I never may believe   
These antique fables, nor these fairy toys.   
Lovers and madmen have such seething brains,   
Such shaping fantasies, that apprehend   
More than cool reason ever comprehends.   
The lunatic, the lover, and the poet,   
Are of imagination all compact.  
- _Theseus, A Midsummer Nights’ Dream_

 

There were a few things that Hermione knew as absolute truths in regards to the tableau in front of her.

One: Whatever resulted from this ridiculous mock-duel was going to be messy, possibly dangerous—and completely hilarious.

Two: Sirius Black looked _fantastic_ at battle-stance, a challenging grin on his face, with his wand holding his opponent at bay.

Three: She didn’t care what she had to do to preserve this memory firmly in her head for all time, but Hermione did not intend to ever forget this moment, for as long as she lived.

Her first conclusion led her to hurriedly begin packing up her things in order to stuff them behind the couch and hope that she wouldn’t regret her decision not to charm them imperturbable. The second conclusion made the action of packing her things away incredibly difficult, due to her level of distraction. Hermione’s third conclusion had her deciding fiercely that she’d actually go as far as threatening to hex Professor Dumbledore if he ever told her she had to remove her memories of the past for any reason.

When she finally managed to move her books to a safe place, Hermione found that the boys’ audience had expanded, likely due to word of mouth to any Gryffindors that had been in their dormitories rather than the common room. Peter was in the process of moving the small table out of the way, and the semi-circle of students watching the proceedings had left the ‘dueling’ Marauders plenty of space to square off. Hermione caught Sirius’ eye for a quick moment, and he winked at her.

“If you think I’m going to kiss the victor— _whichever_ one it turns out to be—you’re both crazy,” she informed the two opponents tartly, watching Sirius’ face fall at her clarification.

“You’ve been reading too many medieval romance novels,” Remus observed in a dry whisper.

“Exactly how do _you_ know what’s in a medieval romance novel?” Hermione asked him with a penetrating look. Lupin flushed for a long minute, and though she knew it was more likely that he’d read medieval _history_ , it was still fun to tease him about it anyway.

“Touché.” Her future professor inclined his head slightly, acknowledging the point.

“Well, James—shall we?” Sirius asked in a relaxed tone that was made even more amusing by the fact that his body was tensed and prepared for a fight.

“Don’t mind if I do,” James said nonchalantly, lifting his wand in the customary salute.

The bright colored flashes of light that denoted successful spellcasting made everyone in the room blink rapidly or shield their eyes—and when they could all see properly again, what was in front of them made every last one of them roar with laughter.

Sirius Black was in the process of growing long, thick black hair from every inch of his skin at an alarmingly fast rate, but the truly amusing sight was James Potter, whose pride and joy (his hair) was laying perfectly coiffured in a bouffant style—but instead of it being his customary black, the color was now _bright pink_. Hermione was laughing so hard she could barely stand up—she’d never have thought Sirius would have gone for such subtlety, especially given what the other boy had chosen to cast on him. James _loved_ his hair, for all that it was usually in constant disarray.

Sirius very much resembled his animagus form by now, having fallen to the floor in a fit of laughter at James’ appearance. What made the scene even more amusing was the fact that Potter couldn’t even see what had been done to him.

“Well! Can’t teach an _old dog_ new tricks, I guess.” James leaned over and patted Sirius’ head, cleverly playing on their secret’s double meaning. “Yours didn’t work!” he crowed.

“I think you need a mirror, James,” Peter managed to say through his peals of laughter. Remus cast a spell Hermione couldn’t hear, and suddenly part of the wall turned reflective, showing James his new hairdo in all of its glory.

“SIRIUS, YOU BASTARD!” James screeched, staring at his image in the conjured mirror. Hermione was so caught up in the throes of hysterical laughter that she didn’t hear what Harry’s father cast next, but the result was that Sirius’ new shaggy hair had turned various colors of the rainbow.

“You _still_ look worse than me!” Sirius’ voice was muffled by the purple locks that surrounded his mouth, as well as his barking laughter. “Let me see here…”

Whatever Sirius cast on James caused his victim to sprout a full handlebar mustache (pink, of course), the length of which could have been entered into the Muggle Guinness Book of World Records. The air was filled with mostly incoherent giggling, and just as James lifted his own wand to enact his revenge, the portrait hole opened behind them.

“JAMES POTTER what in MERLIN’S NAME are you DOING?!”

Seeing Lily Evans in high dudgeon was _truly_ a sight to behold. Hermione realized that from her friend’s perspective, James’ hair was simply a different color—but _Sirius_ was a rainbow splattered, twisted version of Bigfoot. Potter turned to face his girlfriend slowly, clearly trying to ignore the image of a multicolored Sirius rolling on the floor in hysterics as well as the host of onlookers clutching at each other and the furniture in their attempts to stay upright while laughing.

“Lily, I can explain,” he started—but the movement of his mouth made the long tails of his oversized pink mustache flutter and dance at his sides. Both Hermione and Sirius were curled up in the fetal position in their separate locations, shaking with laughter, and she saw Peter on the couch with Remus, the former with a pillow over his face trying to calm down, the latter wiping tears from his cheeks from the force of his guffaws.

The fact that Lily managed to keep a straight face for the first few minutes told Hermione a lot about the other woman’s character.

“I—” the Head Girl began, looking from the rainbow mass of fur that was Sirius to her fluorescent pink-haired boyfriend. “I don’t want to know,” she finally said, conjuring up a purple velvet top hat and handing it soberly to James before shaking her head in disbelief and walking up the stairs to the girl’s dormitories.  
James stared at the hat, then at his girlfriend’s retreating form on the stairs, and turned to Sirius.

“I think you won.”

=====

Once the two boys had been restored to their normal selves, and the Gryffindor onlookers had calmed down and returned to their previous activities, their core group of friends each headed off in different directions. It was as if they’d all simultaneously decided that it would be best for everyone if each calmed down separately, considering that any time any one of them made eye contact, the whole lot collapsed into helpless laughter.

Hermione looked askance at her homework and packed it back up. There was no way she could focus on anything with the images of the past hour still cavorting around in her brain. She decided what she needed most was a walk, curfew rules notwithstanding. Hermione had barely gotten ten feet from the portrait of the Fat Lady, however, before she heard Sirius’ voice from the alcove she remembered so fondly.

“So, how about my reward?”

He was standing with his back against the wall, the light of the moon slanted to illuminate the stone floor at his feet. She couldn’t see his face, but the tone of his voice was enough to send her senses reeling. Hermione had a wild urge to walk up to him and offer herself as a willing sacrifice to whatever he wanted her to do…Ruthlessly suppressing that sexy thought, she drew on the confidence she felt from the knowledge that he wanted to kiss her, and spoke.

“We didn’t agree on a reward,” Hermione said in a low voice. She crossed the space between them slowly, drawn to the shadows where she could see the faint glitter of his eyes. When she stepped into the moonlight, he shifted forward, pulling her into his arms for a kiss. Her arms snuck up around his neck of their own accord, even as her mind struggled to remember that there was something important she was supposed to be saying, here. She’d just about forgotten it when his lips started to trail kisses along her neck to her hair.

“Sirius!” Hermione protested, her voice holding none of the indignation she’d intended. “I said I wasn’t going to kiss the winner!” _Not that I’m going to stop, or anything_ , she thought to herself as she ran her hands through his silky hair. _It’s just the principle of the thing._

“You just said you wouldn’t kiss me— _not_ that you wouldn’t kiss _back_ ,” he said with infuriating logic.

“I didn’t say ‘I won’t _initiate_ a kiss,’ I said—” she protested, the ability to think clearly fleeing from her as his hot breath caressed her ear. She opened her mouth to continue their argument, but as usual, Sirius cut straight to the point. He pulled away to look down into her eyes, the strength of his emotions showing in them to such a degree that her heart caught in her throat.

“You think too much.” He spoke the words softly, almost as an endearment, his head dipping down to brush tiny kisses along her lips. The heat from his breath and her knowledge of his intent stirred up brushfires along where his hands touched her body. 

_I love you_ , Sirius, she said with her eyes as he looked into them before his intense gaze fell to back her lips, lingering there. _I love you, Sirius_ , she said with her hands as she traced a gentle line from the nape of his neck along his cheek, pulling him to her. _I love you, Sirius_ , she said with her kiss, throwing all of her heart into the intense battle of their lips.

_I love you, Sirius_ , Hermione said, in every way she could allow herself, every way that spoke without words.

=====

Throughout that week, any reference to autographs, mustaches, or fur sent all six of them into peals of uncontrollable laughter, something that managed to lose Gryffindor a total of 15 House points, and garner James a rather nasty detention with Professor McGonagall. They all agreed it was worth it, however.

On Friday, Hermione was going through her schedule and noticed that the following Monday was their monthly Herbology lesson. It dawned on her that she’s already been in 1977 for a month, and she tried to remember what she was doing a month before this, besides being humiliated in front of a host of First Years.

“She looks perplexed,” Peter remarked to James, who was seated beside him.

“She does, indeed—I wonder what about,” James answered lazily. “Think she’d be distracted if I flicked a grape at her?”

“Don’t even think about it,” Hermione said without looking up.

“I’d say that’s a ‘yes,’” Peter observed.

“Peter?” Hermione looked at the sandy-haired boy across the table from her, feeling a nasty chill when she had the fleeting thought that he wasn’t all that good at looking innocent. She shoved the thought aside, but not before reminding herself that she’d made a promise in her diary to include him more, to actively treat him with kindness. Now wasn’t exactly the time for the latter, however. “Do you think you’d look good in a handlebar mustache? Orange, perhaps?” she asked, idly.

Remus choked on his pumpkin juice at the same time as Sirius began to laugh—an action that quickly turned into a hacking cough when she glanced in his direction.

“Not particularly,” Peter said rather bravely. She nodded at him with a flicker of approval in her eyes before looking back at the paper in front of her.

“If you change your mind, let me know.”

“So—wonder what we’ll be doing in Herbology on Monday,” Lily said in a blatant attempt to change the subject.

“ _NOT_ falling off of brooms in front of snickering First Years,” Hermione said firmly.

“You didn’t fall off of your broom!” Sirius protested. She looked at him steadily.

“You said you couldn’t see me,” Hermione scolded. She permitted herself a slight smile as Sirius’ ears began to turn red.

“Well, I tried,” Lily said, shrugging. Hermione reached under the table to squeeze Sirius’ hand in reassurance, and he wrapped his larger one around hers. They held hands as the conversation turned to other things, though Hermione was still thinking about what changes had happened to her over a short month. Suddenly, she had a thought, and spoke without thinking about what her inquiry might sound like to the people at the table with her.

“Say—when’s the next full moon?”

Sirius released her hand in shock at the same time Hermione realized what a question like _that_ would mean to the Marauders. Everyone looked uncomfortable, and Hermione _dared_ not look at Remus, not wanting him to think she had any suspicions, especially since she couldn’t possibly explain them in a public setting like a lunch table.

“Why do you ask?” James said, finally. There was an undercurrent of protectiveness so close to the surface that she wanted to run around the table and hug him for caring so deeply.

“Oh,” Hermione picked the first lie she thought of and hoped it sounded realistic. “There are some plants that are particularly valuable for medicinal purposes, that are only capable of being harvested under the full moon—I thought it might be likely that we’d have a lesson involving something like that, if it happens to fall on Monday.”

“It doesn’t.” Remus’ voice was short, his tone almost harsh. Hermione felt completely terrible for putting him through such a conversation—especially because she cared so much for _him_ , and not at all about the fact that he was a werewolf. She shook her head, plastering a bright smile on her face that she knew wasn’t convincing at all, and excused herself from the table.

Hermione barely made it out of the Great Hall before bursting into bitter tears, weeping for a man she knew didn’t deserve what fate had done to him, and _hating_ herself for reminding him of it so carelessly.

=====

Remus’ emotions were a raw mixture of confusion and despair. It was indeed drawing near to the full moon; today he’d been able to capture small hints of strong emotion from the people closest to him—and therein lay his confusion.

The second Hermione (he’d allowed his mind to refer to her as her true name, even though he kept telling himself it was dangerous—he could slip up and use it) had asked her question about the moon, he could almost _taste_ the horror, the dismay she’d felt. That it had been overlain almost immediately by a deep concern and protectiveness from all of his other friends didn’t make _her_ reaction any less puzzling. It didn’t make any sense; the reaction was as baffling as the strong sense of caring he caught from her in regards to himself. The feelings were so _familiar_ , so similar to Lily’s or even Peter’s, that he had often thought he’d been confusing her scent with one of the others’.

The truth of the matter was, he was completely certain that she’d left the table almost in tears.

As the rest of his friends discussed her hasty departure in low, worried tones, Remus lapsed into a reflective state, thinking about all the emotions and reactions he’d seen from Hermione, all of the subtle hints in her letter. A strange conclusion started to bubble up in his mind, and the more he tried to ignore it as unlikely, the more plausible it seemed. Her reaction about her parents, her sudden appearance in the magical world—the extent given to her education (Time Turners weren’t an item easily trifled with by fully grown wizards, he knew), all of those things seemed to lead directly to his odd idea.

Remus became convinced that a member of Hermione’s family had been bitten by a werewolf. It seemed like the ultimate irony—a family so wholly against magic to suddenly be thrust into the thick of it, and in _that_ sort of way. The strong emotions he sensed from her, not the least of which was a periodic pity—the Headmaster must have told her about him.

Strangely, he didn’t feel betrayed. He recognized Hermione as a trustworthy person—after all, she hadn’t dropped a word to him, not even while explaining her strange circumstances albeit cryptically in their letters—and he knew he wasn’t the only one to see her in that light. The whole thing made sense to him; the pieces all seemed to fit together. He resolved to find a time when he could sit down with Hermione and talk with her about what he’d discovered. She would likely be surprised, probably frightened, but he knew it was the right thing to do. 

Lupin looked up at the High Table at Professor Dumbledore, grateful that the old man had meddled slightly, but not enough to force the decision he’d just made. Albus Dumbledore was truly the best man he knew.


	36. Angst

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's Christmas, and this is one of my all-time favorite chapters that aren't humor. The interactions between Hermione and Snape in this and the next chapter are integral to both of their characters, now and in the 'future.'

Now I will tell you what I’ve done for you  
Fifty thousand tears I’ve cried  
Screaming, deceiving, and bleeding for you  
And you still won’t hear me  
(I’m going under)  
Don’t want your hand this time, I’ll save myself  
Maybe I’ll wake up for once not tormented daily defeated by you  
Just when I thought I reached the bottom  
I’m dying again  
_-Going under, Evanescence_

 

Severus Snape was having a lot of difficulty sleeping. His usual outlet was to cover pages in his old _Advanced Potion-Making_ book with various charms, curses, and hexes that he’d created or found useful. It was a way of organizing and overpowering his jumbled thoughts—but lately he’d begun to be plagued by nightmares that he knew stemmed from disordered memories and long-held grudges.

For someone who felt his most creative in the hours that directly followed the sun’s departure from the soon-to-be night sky, this new restlessness was most inconvenient. Rather than being able to focus on his schoolwork—or, more often, a new incantation—Snape was spending his favorite hours of the day wondering what long-lost, long-repressed memories of his childhood would surface in the coming night’s dream.

He blamed these new developments on his mother, not even bothering to wince at the Muggle cliché—though as someone who considered himself well-read, he’d perused some of their Dr. Freud’s theories. Snape had more or less dismissed them; while he had seen his father as somewhat of a rival, and had wanted to protect his mother, he didn’t want to be anything like the man. Tobias Snape had been a drunkard with a heavy hand and an even stronger temper.

_And he had been a Muggle._

Severus sighed. It seemed as though he would be unable to immerse the disturbing thoughts, suppress the slow-burning anger he felt, not tonight. The fact that it was Friday meant he had no scheduled way of distracting himself the next day other than to watch Quidditch practices. The next 48 or so hours loomed ahead of him, promising little sleep and much frustration. He decided to take a walk, to find a way either distract himself—or a quiet place in which to wrestle with his inner demons, once and for all.

The outside air was right on the edge of being described as ‘cold.’ Snape hadn’t donned his school robes, choosing instead to venture out wearing a simple grey shirt and black trousers, which the light wind coming from across the faraway lake treated as fairly nonexistent. He welcomed the stinging numbness, wishing he could apply it to his thoughts but knowing that the only way that he was going to find peace would be to set the awful memories loose instead of stuffing them away.

He thought about his mother, knowing that picturing her face would bring an immediate onslaught of painful memories, the most recent of which being only a few months before. Ever methodical, however, Severus pushed those memories back, seeking one of the most important recollections with relevance to the painful mental journey he planned on taking that night.

> _He was seven years old, and he HATED his father. Severus cowered on the doorstep to their house, knowing that he’d earn himself another beating if he ventured back inside, and sure that he’d receive one for retreating any further, as well. He could hear his mother’s shrieks of pain, and wondered, precociously, how he had ever come into existence._
> 
> _Children were—or so he’d read—supposed to be the physical expression of their parents’ love. If that was true, however, what did that make him? An abomination, a perversion of the true meaning of love? A mistake, bound to make amends for daring to be born, his purpose on earth to be a reminder to his parents of all their mistakes?_
> 
> _He really wasn’t sure which option he preferred._
> 
> _He heard footsteps on the floor behind him, and knew that his brutish father was seeking him for another round. Severus stood, knowing that it was a foolish thing to do—a body could fly much farther from a standing position than a sitting one—but unable to suppress the defiant urge to appear unafraid. Tobias Snape would know it was a sham; by the time his father finished with him, he’d be once again on the ground, begging for leniency. There was just something in him, however, that could not be suppressed—a force that seemed to be driven to deny any desire to give up without a fight._
> 
> _Weak-kneed, a sallow-skinned boy with slick black hair that seemed to absorb the afternoon sun stood with a straight back, facing the half-open door of his house, too frightened even to form a fist with his small hands._

His father had beaten him to near death that day. That event had been a catalyst for his mother.

She had renounced her magic when the man she’d fallen for had reacted so strongly against it, burying her wand in the dirt behind their house. When Severus had been born, they’d been happy—but the nature of her talent had shown true in her son. Strange things would happen, things that drove Tobias into fits of fury—but the tiny child could not forsake something he didn’t even know he had. She couldn’t even teach him how to control it, because she spent no time alone with the boy—and if her husband could get so angry over something that was an uncontrollable accident, how would he react to purposeful magic?

Time and time again she’d allowed her husband to commit atrocities against herself and their son, telling herself she’d turned her back on their only defense—but that all changed when she saw that her son had stopped breathing, the skin on every visible surface bruised and battered from the older man’s vicious rage. His mother had burst into tears and fled to the back yard, leaving his father with the impression that she’d been cowed by his violence again—but then she’d returned.

With her wand.

Tobias Snape was ordered to leave and never return. His unreasoning fear of magic meant that Eileen Prince Snape didn’t even have to make good on her threats—he left without another word.

The injuries he had sustained, and the trauma by which they’d been inflicted had mercifully removed all memories of the event for many years. He and his mother moved, she reconnecting with the wizarding community, and he learning to appreciate the joys of magic. Still, theirs was not a happy life—though he had lost many of his memories of his father and had basically repressed the rest, his mother never quite forgave him for being the wedge that had driven the man she’d truly loved away from her. _She_ had been content to live without magic; she had made her choice—and he’d forced her into a different one.

School had been a blessing. Eileen Snape’s self-hatred had by that time mostly displaced onto himself, and one consequence of this was that he hadn’t been taught very much about magic at all. He’d learned a lot about self-restraint and patience in Slytherin—and had found to his surprise that he was extraordinarily gifted. The missing memories from his childhood and his mother’s tight-lipped refusal to speak of his father had led him to the natural conclusion that he was a pureblood whose father had simply abandoned them in one of those hazy periods of his life that he couldn’t recall with clarity. Severus frankly hadn’t blamed his father in the slightest for leaving—he knew what his mother was like.

Everything he’d known about his life had changed that past summer, however.

Snape picked his way across the grass bordering the Forbidden Forest, studiously ignoring the field to his right and the slowly swaying Whomping Willow. _That_ painful memory could remain locked where it was, tonight.

He had _always_ dreaded going home, even as he dreaded returning in the fall; though this feeling originated mostly from the knowledge that once he graduated, he wouldn’t be able to return, and thus his love of Hogwarts was forever tinged with the bittersweet understanding that it wouldn’t last. When he had been home for barely a week, however, something completely unexpected happened.

Tobias Snape showed up at their door.

The moment he’d seen the man, the terrible things he had experienced at his father’s hands had begun to come back to him. These weren’t nearly as horrible as what was completely evident in every essence of the man who had given birth to him— _he was a Muggle._

Severus was forced to question everything he knew about his own identity that day. As a half-blood, his status among his Slytherin friends would drop dramatically. Suddenly his talents for the creation of new hexes and curses seemed less of a birthright and more a freakish quirk. The scars on his body proved to be from abuse rather than a vigorous childhood. 

The worst part of all was that he could see his mother had never stopped loving the man—and he was _certain_ that she had never hidden away the memories of what that man done to both of them. Eileen Prince turned back into Eileen Snape in the matter of twenty-four hours, and this caused her resentment of him to be very much amplified. She could see in his eyes that he had begun to remember what had happened in the past, and instead of comforting him or apologizing for any of it, she became defensive and hostile. Severus could see that she wanted nothing more than for him to have never existed.

He’d come to her the third week of June and told her flatly that she wouldn’t have to see him for more than a few hours a week if she would finance a small potions lab in their basement. The look of joy in her eyes cut him deeply; it left as large a scar on his heart as any his father had inflicted ten years before.

Severus had always been good at potions. They above all other magical disciplines were able to lift his thoughts out of the physical world and into an ordered, academic one. That summer, he methodically and precisely recreated every single potion in his _Advanced Potion Making_ book. As he perfected each method of preparation, he’d note his findings in the book’s margins, scratching out shoddy brewing instructions and supplying his own. 

In the mornings, he went on long treks through the nearby countryside in search of rare plants, knowing and welcoming the chilling fact that if he met any danger on the way, his parents would do nothing short of rejoice. During the day, he slaved over his cauldron, uncaring of fumes or accidents, obsessively working on each new potion until it was flawless. In the evenings, he chronicled his discoveries, whether it was a new way of slicing a potion ingredient, or a curse that cut one’s opponent with the force of a dozen knives—and at night, Severus contemplated his future, knowing he would no longer be welcome at ‘home,’ and despairing of his newly discovered blood status.

The day before he was to leave on the Hogwarts Express, Severus Snape carefully opened his worn potions text and placed an inscription on the inside cover, reveling darkly in the irony of the words he’d chosen.

_Property of the Half-Blood Prince._

Severus reached the lake, shutting his eyes to allow his other senses to absorb the scene in front of him. The wind had picked up, lifting his heavy hair into disarray and pressing his clothes against his body in a cold caress. He could hear the gentle waves lapping against the rocky shore, the lower timbre mixing well with the higher pitched rustling of the foliage nearby. He wished it were morning, so that the symphony of sounds could be completed by melodic birdsong—but this impulsive desire for natural beauty was quickly overcast by the morbid and depressing trend of his earlier thoughts.

He opened his eyes, momentarily regaining his appreciation of the natural environment as he saw the reflection of the nearly full moon on the waters of the lake. He began to hear a new set of noises, inconsistent and without the rhythm that would mark them as environmental. Severus turned, expecting to see a deer—but it was Hermia James, her arms clasped tightly around herself and her head tilted back to face the moon. She looked as though she was screaming, but he couldn’t hear anything more than her footsteps and the disturbance of the earth beneath her feet.

He wasn’t sure whether or not to be frustrated at his sudden lack of privacy or oddly comforted that he wasn’t the only one to appear to be in some sort of agony tonight. The girl hadn’t seen him yet, and he realized with a pang of unexpected sympathy what her frequent stops, head movements, and meandering path across the grass meant.

She _was_ screaming.

=====

Hermione had gotten steadily more miserable as the night wore on. She knew she should have been expecting it—she always managed to punish herself mentally for her own bad choices, and her depth of caring for Remus meant that, to her conscience, reminding him of his transformation (especially when she wasn’t even supposed to _know_ about it) was unforgivable. What had made it so much worse—and the main reason she hadn’t gone back to the common room as the sun had set and day turned into night—was that with the apex of the full moon coming in a scant few days, he probably could sense her discomfort. He would want to know why she was so upset, and she didn’t know what to tell him.

Her had mind raced through all of the descriptions of lycanthropy she’d read through during her Third Year and afterwards, shrinking away as she had at the time from the thought of someone like Remus being required to go through such awful pain on a clockwork schedule. The thoughts of it now, _here_ were all the more horrible, because at the time she’d read those things, the Wolfsbane Potion had already existed.

She’d needed to pace, as she always did when she was upset, but rather than wear a path into the stone walkway in the school courtyard, she set off along the cliff face, heading toward the lake. The sun had set during the time she’d spent huddled in a corner in the courtyard, and the treacherous moon had risen, reminding her that, inexorably, it would hang heavy and full at the beginning of the coming week.

It no longer appeared beautiful to her, and her strength of guilt and intensity of regard for her friend made her feel ashamed that she ever found it so. As she’d wound her way haphazardly across the field, Hermione’s emotions started to envelop her. The stress of making promises to herself that she hadn’t kept (Sirius); the acute pain of making friends with the one woman who truly understood her (Lily); the double-edged torment of seeing a likeness of Harry every day (James), and knowing that it should have been _Harry_ being given the chance to get to know his father—and then, the conflicting emotions that surrounded the boy that she didn’t even want to admit to consider a friend, even as she had started to understand him a little (Peter).

Just as she had finished her reflection on her relationship with each of her new friends, she’d looked up to see the Whomping Willow in front of her, illuminated by the nearly full moon rising just above the tips of the branches. This sight, appearing as it had just as she’d gotten to the final member of her new coterie of friends—it sent her into a rage so full-bodied and violent that she was nearly incapacitated by it. 

She wanted to take James and Lily and hide them away, with _herself_ as their Secret Keeper. She wanted to march up to Gryffindor tower and shake Peter Pettigrew awake, and tell him that he had better not ever contemplate betrayal or he would have HER wrath to deal with. She wanted to sneak into the Ministry of Magic and find a way to alter one of their Time Turners so she could go back and prevent Remus from being bitten. 

Her anguish called forth a low groan from her throat, and suddenly she had known what would help her get through this fit of intense emotion. She pulled her wand from her robe and cast _Silencio!_ on herself. That done, she had looked up at the moon with a look of pure hatred and, clutching herself tightly as though she were afraid that she could be ripped apart by the strength of her opinions, Hermione Granger told the uncaring moon _exactly_ what she thought of it.


	37. Man's Best Friend, With a Twist

  
Peace in the struggle  
To find peace  
Comfort on the way  
To comfort  
- _Fumbling Towards Ecstasy, Sarah McLachlan_

 

It was _so_ cathartic. Hermione had never been able to scream before, not without worrying about whether anyone could be listening. She had tried it once before, but after hardly any time she had found herself focusing more on who could possibly hear her than her own anguish. Right now, though, she stumbled toward the lake, pausing periodically to holler soundlessly at the moon and its reflection on the water, safe in the knowledge that no one would hear her cries—not even herself.

She wasn’t even sure of what she would do once she reached the water—but the shimmering reflection displayed on it suddenly looked very attractive as a target. Irrationally, she decided she would destroy it—attack it, vaporize it, make it non-reflective—in any way she could. Just as she had marched up to the very edge of the shore, however, she felt a strong hand pull her away from the water.

“That water is freezing!” Severus Snape practically yelled in her face. “What do you think you’re doing?!”

Hermione hadn’t thought it was possible to get any angrier, but at that moment she hadn’t wanted anything more than to throw herself into the lake and pound on the surface of the water with all her strength. Snape could barely tolerate her in _this_ time period, and she was certain that he almost _loathed_ her in hers—so why had he bothered to stop her? All of the vile hatred she had been directing toward the dispassionate moon transferred itself immediately to the thin boy who still had a firm grasp on her shoulder.

She tore herself away from him and fumbled in her clothes for her wand, forgetting in her blind fury that she’d silenced herself. The violence of her emotions made her clumsy, and by the time she’d found her weapon Snape had already drawn his.

“ _Expelliarmus!_ ” he said, his normally rich voice sounding hollow—yet calm, frighteningly calm. It had an effect on her, even though at that moment she welcomed her anger, nurtured it like her own child. Hermione could feel some of it draining away as she responded instinctively to his demeanor, and she made baleful eye contact with her future professor. She opened her mouth to wither him with exactly what she thought of his intrusion, but he simply raised an expressive eyebrow. _Right. I can’t talk._

Hermione crossed her arms defensively, not stupid enough to go looking for her wand, but _hating_ him for insinuating himself into the situation.

“I have no intention of terminating that spell,” he informed her. Hermione tipped her head insolently to the side as if to ask him what he did intend. Snape almost looked as if he didn’t know, and it dawned on her that she didn’t really need a wand to release her aggression on a simple patch of water in the lake. Hermione turned and quite deliberately rushed toward the water again.

“Hermia!” he called—and this time she almost fell into the water in shock. He sounded…his voice was raw, and it occurred to her that she might not have been the only one out wrestling with emotions tonight. She wheeled around, asking him if he intended to hex her in what would have been a challenging voice—but of course, nothing came out.

“Whatever it is, it can’t be bad enough to go swimming in _that_ thing,” Snape said, his tone of voice comforting to her by the very fact that he sounded absolutely disgusted that he was trying to deter her. It was much more like the Snape she knew and expected to see, anyway—he just didn’t know how wrong he was. 

“You have no idea,” she mouthed to him silently, shaking her head.

“Look—” he began, and then shook his head, threw up his arms, and stalked off toward the castle. Hermione felt almost as if she’d just missed out on something Important—but out of the corner of her eye, she saw the dark figure stop.

It was a singular moment—with her wand lost somewhere in the grass, and Snape’s back to her, there was no way she could influence his decision to come back. That made it all the more meaningful when the young man turned and slowly walked back in her direction. As he did so, Hermione felt her vindictive rage ebb away. 

_Something_ had made Severus Snape choose to follow Voldemort. She knew him—albeit not very well—from her own time, and he had never struck her as acquisitive, nor had he seemed very ambitious. As a Potions Master, he could have had a job anywhere in Europe—as a former Death Eater even; not every nation had as strong a sentiment against Voldemort as Britain, which was part of the problems they faced in fighting him.

By the time Snape reached her on the shore, Hermione’s anger had transitioned into a deep sadness for what fate had in store for the people she knew in her time as well as this one— _all_ of them.

Hermione felt helpless. This man was not one to appreciate physical expressions in any way, shape, or form—and she couldn’t make a sound. There simply wasn’t any way that she could reach out to him, tell him she appreciated the effort it had taken him to come back to her. Remembering he disliked ‘foolish wand waving’ and other overly demonstrative gestures, Hermione simply stood and waited, reasonably certain that he hadn’t walked back twenty yards in order to insult her.

“I don’t know what your situation is,” he began bluntly, an odd note of sympathy warring with the typical sarcasm that was usually found in his voice. “However, as someone who has looked in the face of great anger and stared it down, I encourage you not to give in to its desire to turn you into a slave of physical aggression.” 

As he’d spoken, Snape had seemed to look past her into the darkness of the Forbidden Forest, eyes narrowing as though challenging his own demons to duel with him again. She stood transfixed, unable and unwilling to disturb this shocking glimpse into the mind of an intensely private man. Hermione thought she understood what he meant about fury having a will of its own; not ten minutes earlier she had been desperate to leave some sort of tangible monument to her rage, even if it had meant destroying something or half-drowning herself in the lake. 

Severus’ focus returned to her, and he looked into her eyes searchingly, as though he needed to find the darkness held in check. She met his steady gaze bravely; on a whim she brought the terrible knowledge she held of his future to the forefront, wondering if he could see the truth of it reflected in the moonlight.

“Do not let it win,” Snape said, almost urgently—and she shivered. “All of us have…memories…” he seemed to struggle with the word, “that make us want to scream at an uncaring sky.”

=====

Sirius woke on Saturday morning feeling forlorn. Hermia hadn’t come back before he’d finally given up and gone to bed, and while he certainly didn’t expect her to check in with him before doing anything she felt she had to do, he still felt unhappy that he hadn’t gotten to see her before he’d gone to sleep. After her abrupt departure from the dinner table, he and the others had all questioned each other for nearly an hour trying to figure out what was wrong—and Remus had looked especially pensive during that conversation.

He told himself he was _not_ jealous, just worried about his girlfriend.

Without bothering to look at the clock, he pulled the bedcurtains and decided that the bright sunlight having nearly crossed the floor all the way to Peter’s bed meant it was time for everyone to get up.

“Oi!” he called out, “last one out of bed is a grumpy old house-elf!” Sirius knew just the right name to call one, too.

“Yes, sir,” the weary voice of Remus Lupin replied in a rather good house-elf imitation for someone woken by a loud ‘Oi.’ Sirius looked at the other two beds; he could see Peter’s leg sticking out from below the crimson curtains, the bare foot tapping about on the floor, searching for a slipper—and James…well, he wouldn’t put it past his best friend to have charmed his own bedcurtains to be Imperturbable. 

The honorary Potter stood and padded over to James’ four-poster, trying to ignore the amusing sight of Wormtail attempting to don his slippers without looking (one foot had managed to slide in halfway, but the slipper itself was upside-down). Sirius leaned as close to the Gryffindor decorated material as he dared, hearing Remus muttering that he would claim to have still been asleep if he lost a limb trying to wake Prongs.

“Come on, James—time to wake up and decide what we’re going to do on Wednesday,” he dangled, knowing that his friend loved their adventures during the full moon.

“Mmmff,” was the only reply, followed by a light snore not a minute later. James always could sleep anywhere.

“D’you think he only hexed them to keep humans out?” Sirius asked Remus and Peter (who had finally managed to emerge from bed, slippers and all) thoughtfully.

“You _wouldn’t_ , Pettigrew gasped, realizing the implications in the question.

“Well _now_ he will,” Lupin said, shaking his head in consternation. Sirius winked devilishly at him, knowing that Remus could catch the play of emotions he felt, because of how close it was to the full moon. He never could resist a dare.

“What if someone—” Peter began to protest, but Sirius had already transformed into Padfoot and was nosing under the drapes in search of James’ bare feet. His friend had _not_ been clever enough to ward his bed against dogs, and Sirius made the most of it, finding exposed skin and touching his nose to it quickly before backing off—he didn’t want a broken nose when he turned back into a human. Potter’s squeal of indignation was like music to his ears. Considering the fact that James would most certainly learn from his mistake and improve his wards for next time, Sirius decided to make the most of it.

Padfoot leapt onto James’ bed and played happy puppy, enthusiastically licking the protesting boy’s face in his best imitation of Man’s Best Friend, With a Twist.

=====

Hermione had slept well, which had been a surprise. After Snape’s unexpected and poignant statements to her, she’d watched him walk away from her with tears in her eyes. Just as she hadn’t really thought about Sirius or the others having had friendships or relationships ( _Oh, Merlin, that’s ME now, isn’t it?_ ) before becoming involved in the events she knew so well, she hadn’t spent any time contemplating what must have been Snape’s awful childhood. She’d known she couldn’t ask—not the least of reasons being that she had still been under _Silencio_ —and his quiet dignity had felt to her as something quite inviolate.

She had been quite grateful when he’d thoughtfully _Accio_ ’d her wand and carefully dropped it at his feet before moving on, pausing just long enough for her to mark the position. Hermione looked over at the magical object as it sat on the small stand by her bed. It seemed painfully ironic to her that the only people to have touched it in this time were herself, Snape, and Peter—the latter having caught the wand as it slipped from her robes while they waited for Transfiguration class a week before. She suppressed the wild urge to snatch it up and hand it ‘round at luncheon that day, if only to set her mind at ease. Hermione hated superstition—but she was _aware_ of certain…prejudicial feelings…nonetheless.

“Ye shouldn’ sleep wi’ tha curtains open, ye know,” Fiona remarked when she saw that Hermione was awake.

“Oh?” she asked, sitting up and smiling at the woman she was _certain_ had to be Seamus’ mother—they had the same eyes. McCready nodded sagely, and Hermione wondered what sort of strange reason the Irishwoman was going to come out with, especially as she had been thinking about superstitions just a minute before. However, Fiona managed to surprise and shock her at the same time:

“Ye migh’ talk in yer sleep.”

“ _Do_ I talk in my sleep?” Hermione asked, horrified at the thought.

“D’ye think I’d let on if ye did?” Fiona laughed heartily. “Good source o’ infermation, that.” Hermione resisted the urge to throw a pillow at the other girl, unsure of who would win if she started something physical.

“Remind me not to do anything that could be considered ‘blackmail material’ around you, then,” Hermione teased.

“I won’,” the redhead replied baldly, giving a little wave as she headed through the dormitory door and down the staircase.

_Of course you won’t,_ Hermione thought to herself with a chuckle. _I wonder if there is any way I could introduce you to the Weasley twins…_ She never before thought to consider it a great tragedy that certain people that would have been _very_ well-suited to be friends had been born so far apart as to never meet each other.

She stretched lazily and got up, realizing all of a sudden that she was ravenously hungry. Hermione dressed hurriedly, tossing on a sweater that she’d bought out of sheer sentimentality—the color was _exactly_ the same as that Mrs. Weasley used for Ron’s Christmas sweaters. She wasn’t exactly sure how she’d explain her tearful exit from dinner the night before, but she wasn’t as worried about it as she thought she would be. Her friends were good, kind, and forgiving people—and she didn’t think she wanted to go another minute without seeing Sirius again.


	38. Books of Revelations

  
Our doubts are traitors,  
And make us lose the good we oft might win  
By fearing to attempt.  
- _Measure For Measure, Shakespeare_

 

Hermione crossed through the large wooden doors of the Great Hall and was surprised to see that most of her group of friends were already there—they usually had breakfast in the common room on Saturdays with food filched from the house-elves. She saw James, Sirius, Peter, and Remus, all laughing and talking; Lily seemed not to have gotten up yet. As Hermione approached them, she noticed that James kept periodically swiping at his face with a sleeve.

“Good morning!” Hermione settled herself next to Sirius, who immediately slung a careless arm around her shoulder. He gently picked up her other hand, threaded his with it lightly against her leg, and suddenly she felt completely at home. There was only one problem.

“How are you going to eat, Mr. Black?” she asked him in quiet whisper, squeezing their intertwined fingers and shrugging a shoulder to indicate that he didn’t any hands left to eat with.

“You could always feed me,” he said, his eyes twinkling.

“You trust me that much?” Hermione said, reaching for the jam she knew he hated and spreading it liberally on a scone.

“For you, I’d eat anything,” Sirius declared in a louder voice—but he removed his arm from her shoulder to reach for his own scone. Following his arm movement, Hermione saw James reach up and scrub at his face again, this time with a napkin.

“Have you got Kneazle Pox, James?” Hermione asked her friend sweetly, indicating his reddened face. Sirius’ hand twitched in hers, and suddenly she became a little suspicious as to what exactly was going on. This feeling was intensified after Potter’s next comment.

“No, it’s just that _someone_ slobbered all over my face this morning to wake me up,” the black-haired boy said in a very grumpy voice. 

At that, Sirius released her to run a hand through his hair as he burst out laughing; Peter and Remus were both in similar states of amused distress. Hermione looked at all of them and then back at James, raising both eyebrows in an unspoken question, but he just looked back at her helplessly, shoulders shaking in laughter. She next turned to Sirius.

“Well, you know,” her boyfriend said with slightly widened eyes, “the boys’ dorms aren’t nearly as well-protected as yours.” James’ eyes lit up at this, and he expanded on the idea.

“Exactly! After all, _we_ don’t have a protective staircase.”

“Are you trying to imply that Lily—” Hermione started indignantly, only to be interrupted by the girl in question.

“Imply what?” Lily Evans asked good-naturedly, choosing her seat next to James and reaching immediately for a piece of toast.

“That you slobbered all over James this morning,” Remus replied brightly.

“Thanks, Moony,” Potter said sourly.

“Anytime.”

“I’m waiting…” Lily had crossed her arms and was looking speculatively at her nervous boyfriend.

“It was _Padfoot_ , okay?” he finally said—and it was clear by the look on his face that he had completely forgotten that Hermione knew Sirius’ nickname. Now it was her turn to lose it; the hysterical giggles hit her so strongly that she had to lean against Sirius’ shoulder to support herself. The image of Snuffles enthusiastically showering Harry’s father with affection was just _too_ priceless.

She felt Sirius’ body jerk next to hers and immediately afterwards James yelped in pain.

“Merlin’s _beard_ , what was _that_ for, Sirius?!” The injured boy reached down and rubbed his shin.

“I don’t know, _Prongs_ ,” Hermione emphasized. “Perhaps you’ve forgotten that I know your nicknames?”

At this point, Peter had his head down on the table, Sirius was snickering, and Remus had cheekily reached across the table in order to shake James’ hand.

“Oh, stuff it, Moony,” James said as he slapped the proffered hand away. 

The best part for Hermione was the fact that they had no idea that she knew _exactly_ what they meant by ‘Padfoot did it.’ She had no intention of letting on, either—this had too much potential.

“Should I be threatening you to a duel, James?” she asked coolly, not looking at either of them.

“You’re in for it now,” Peter informed Potter.

“You should duel Lily instead,” Sirius suggested with a hint of a leer, “—that would at least be fun to watch.” This time it was Sirius who was kicked under the table. “Ouch, James!”

“Hurts, doesn’t it?” came the unsympathetic reply.

“Can someone please tell me what’s going on?” Lily asked with a little stamp of her foot. Sirius raised his hands and made a gesture calling for silence.

“Look, James wouldn’t wake up this morning and I—” he paused dramatically for effect, “I did what I had to do. I’m not sorry,” he added, defensively.

Hermione wasn’t going to let him off that easily. She gathered up all her courage and looked at him, eyes already misted with tears from laughing, and let her lower lip quiver just slightly.

“Is there something you need to tell me?” she asked, rather proud of the catch in her voice.

“I—” Sirius looked from her over to James and glared at his best friend, though the effect was somewhat marred by the fact that he could barely keep a serious expression. “James, I’m going to hex you into next week.”

=====

Remus walked along the hallway that led to the library, his expression pensive. He wanted to talk to Hermione about the werewolf issue, but her reaction the day before made him wonder if it was such a good idea to just come right out and ask her about it. She didn’t seem like a flighty person—but then, some people were awfully private about their home life; he counted himself among their number. He’d been worried that she might be genuinely upset, enough to remain so for a few days (Sirius sometimes got so moody that he was hard to be around for days on end, especially after spending time with his own family), but her cheerful participation in their ribbing that morning reassured him about that.

Unfortunately her merry demeanor absolved him of the need to wait before bringing his questions up in some way—and he’d half hoped he would have more time to think over his approach. James and Sirius had headed off to the Quidditch Pitch for Gryffindor’s practice (James had asked Sirius to act as a referee), Peter had gone off to wherever it was he went when he wanted to be alone to work on an essay, and Lily had Head Girl duties. So, really, it was the perfect time for him to talk to Hermione…Lupin sighed.

As he entered the library, he saw that there weren’t very many people there—thus removing his last excuse, as he hadn’t wanted to broach a subject so private as this when there existed the possibility that someone could overhear them. Remus wandered between two stacks, not wishing to look lost but unready to find Hermione just yet. His eyes scanned the titles, seeing a few on the subject of Vampires…giving him an idea.

=====

Hermione had intended to spend much of her Friday evening working on Charms and Arithmancy, with Transfiguration as her Saturday afternoon task—and therefore she was in a bit of a rush today. Luckily no one ever seemed to come to this section of the library, for all that it was within sight of the entrance—or, rather, you could see the entrance if you sat ‘just so,’ with your chair leaning back slightly. In any event, she was completely distracted with four books open, a quill in her mouth, another in her hand, and two essays being written at once when suddenly a very thick looking volume was placed in her line of sight on the table.

She looked at the book first, of course—and the quill fell from her mouth in surprise. ‘‘ _The Werewolf: a Case Study in Lycanthropy’_ by Fenra Eninac.’ She followed the book’s spine up the red-clad arm of the person who’d put it on the table and into the eyes of Remus Lupin. He didn’t say anything, and she wondered if he’d just walk away expecting her to make her own conclusions—a prospect that intimidated her a little. 

It was one thing to observe someone over the course of a year (helped along by Professor Snape’s _oh, Merlin, how convoluted all this gets_! vindictive behavior toward his new colleague), and quite another to read a book and ‘suddenly’ realize that the person who’d offered it as reading material is afflicted with lycanthropy. Then, her eyebrows furrowed, as she realized she didn’t recognize the book—and she’d thought she had read _all_ the books in this library about werewolves.

“I’ve never seen this one before,” Hermione blurted out, reaching for the leather-bound volume. She missed the start of surprise and subsequent ripple of understanding that crossed Remus’ face, as she was engrossed in flipping through the book he’d set before her. In fact, when she looked up again, he was gone.

Hermione was puzzled. She felt close to Lupin, and knew that he considered her a friend, but after knowing her for just under two months it seemed unlike him to reveal something as big as his affliction so _soon_. She wanted to run after him and scold him that he shouldn’t trust so easily! Without knowing what his life had been like between the awful events she wouldn’t allow herself to think about and his appointment as the DADA professor, it gave her the chills to think that perhaps he _did_ trust too easily, and was going to be hurt sometime in the future that was her past. Even _with_ his ability to sense others’ feelings during the week of his transformation-- _that’s THIS week,_ she realized—it didn’t mean he could always tell who to trust…

Hermione understood something in that moment. With crystal clarity, a few things fell into place that she hadn’t quite comprehended before—the most important one being that it was highly unlikely that Peter Pettigrew would ‘go bad’ while at Hogwarts. She’d seen—was involved in—the closeness of those four friends, and there was simply no way he could hide his new allegiance; if he spent more than two days away from his other friends, Hermione was certain they would go looking for him, and the instant he came into proximity with Remus, he’d be found out.

This realization gave her great comfort, as well as an idea—because the second implication of Remus’ particular olfactory talent was that Peter must not have spent as much time with the Marauders after graduation, not if he’d managed to avoid being found out. She stopped flipping through the book Remus had given her and sat back, her face a mask of pure concentration as she tried to study her new conclusions from every angle.

What if Peter had begun to fall away, started to drift apart during their Seventh Year? That made more sense than a sudden personality change after graduation; even though that often happened, she’d gotten a sense from the stories she’d heard over the years that James, Remus, and Sirius at least had kept in very close contact—and she couldn’t imagine not seeing Ron or Harry as much after they finished school, either.

If Peter had started his downward spiral by feeling somehow disconnected from his friends, could she in some way influence that? Was it academic? Perhaps fueled by jealousy? Hermione felt a deep feverish excitement grip her—if she could manage to subtly alter his habits enough that even if he did drift away after a certain period, Remus and the others would go and try to persuade him otherwise—maybe they could, at the very least, _possibly_ detect his change of loyalties.

There were a lot of ‘what ifs,’ but it was the first thing she felt she could reasonably allow herself to do to try to change things in a way that was non-intrusive. After all, Peter couldn’t help but benefit by keeping the friendship of the men he was so close to—and even if he did make his terrible decision to ally himself with Voldemort, if she could just manage to get Remus close enough to Peter to figure it out…

Hermione didn’t even pause to consider that Peter _had_ to have been close enough to his friends to be their Secret Keeper—it didn’t even occur to her that Remus may have simply not suspected a thing.

=====

Hermione happened to be sitting ‘just so’ and leaning her chair slightly back while looking between the Lycanthropy book Remus had given her and the thick Arithmancy text she had to study for Monday—when Lucius Malfoy walked into the library. She had been perfectly serious when she’d insulted him the month before by implying he had no idea where it was even located—so his appearance there struck her as highly suspicious. What was even more mystifying was the fact that he looked like he knew exactly where he was going.

On a whim, she set the two books down and lifted a volume of advanced Charms she knew she no longer needed, intending to follow the snobbish boy and see exactly what he was up to. As luck would have it, he turned down the exact aisle in which she needed to return the book, though he didn’t pause or look back as he moved swiftly between the shelves. He definitely knew where he was going.

She risked a peek around the edge of the shelf, doing it cleverly by stepping back, book in hand, and scanning the books at the very edge as though searching for the correct place to replace hers. She nearly dropped the heavy text when she saw to whom Malfoy was speaking, however.

It was Peter.

She couldn’t hear what they were saying, and didn’t want to risk casting anything that might enhance her hearing, as it might interrupt them; she dearly wished for a pair of Extendable Ears. Peter looked incredibly uncomfortable, and she wished Lucius would just leave him alone and come and harass _her_ if he wanted to get his revenge. Hermione toyed with the idea of walking past them to see if Malfoy would transfer his ire to her instead, but she remembered her earlier theories about Peter feeling detached from his friends. She didn’t suppose he would choose to stick around in the library if he knew she had seen him being treated badly by Malfoy.

Regretfully, she stole another look in their direction before shelving her book and heading back to her own little area. Lucius had been leaning over the table with both hands placed flat, speaking earnestly to a disturbed-looking Peter—and she really wished she knew what it was they were saying. It took ten more long minutes before she caught a glimpse of Malfoy’s unmistakable figure exiting the library, and Hermione couldn’t imagine what he could have said that wouldn’t have had Peter either demanding that he leave or leaving himself.

She decided if she was going to play the role of nosy parker, she might as well play it to the hilt. Hermione picked up another book (she actually needed this one, but figured she wasn’t likely to finish all of her work today anyway, and this was more important) and headed off in the direction she’d seen Peter sitting. Sure enough, he was still there, and Hermione deliberately walked in his direction, though she kept her focus on the markings at the end of each shelf, as if she were looking for the correct place to put the book she’d taken with her.

“Oh!” Hermione said, injecting a note of pleased surprise in her voice, but at the same time not trying to sound too astonished—it wouldn’t do to imply that she wouldn’t expect to see Peter in the library, after already insulting Malfoy with that sort of thing, once. “I would have expected you to be out with James and Sirius, at the Quidditch Pitch.” He didn’t look upset that she’d seen him, though he did seem flustered; she attributed that to his having likely been dressed-down by an irate Lucius Malfoy not three minutes before. “You should have come to sit with me,” she suggested in a warm voice. That little alcove she typically sat in was fairly well known as ‘hers,’ and Peter would have known where to find her, she was pretty sure.

“I didn’t want to disturb you,” Pettigrew said, looking up at her without any hint of deception in his voice. She felt a little sorry that he would assume he was unwelcome, and told him so.

“I saw Lucius Malfoy headed in this direction when I was looking for another textbook,” she added on impulse. “He didn’t say anything rude to you, I hope?”

Hermione quickly looked at the book in her hand to hide her reaction—Peter looked _guilty_! She had no idea why he would possibly look that way, unless Malfoy had spoken to him about something _other_ than his interference in her situation last month. She decided that there was nothing to be gained from letting him know she suspected anything from him—after all, she reasoned, _he_ probably didn’t even know what he was destined to do…and treating him as if he’d already done it was a sure-fire way of amplifying his possible feelings of disassociation.

“Well, I don’t want to pry,” Hermione lied, “but if he threatened you in any way, I’m really sorry—I think he’s afraid of me;” Hermione was trying to give him an impression that she thought she knew what the conversation had been about. “Anyway,” she continued brightly, “next time, hit him with a Stinging Hex—works like a charm!” Peter looked at her blankly at her last statement. Hermione faltered a bit, comprehending that ‘works like a charm’ wasn’t quite the same phrase in a world where there actually _were_ charms. 

“Um—that must be a Muggle thing,” Peter nodded at her, some of the tension she’d seen in him following Lucius’ departure seeming to drain away. She nodded back, feeling slightly foolish—‘Hermia’ might be new to the wizarding world, but she herself wasn’t, and it was a silly mistake to have made.

However, it did make her think about Peter’s quick assumption that it was a Muggle phrase. Though it made sense, she wondered if the mysterious conversation Malfoy had with Peter had been in some way about blood purity.

“Well, anyway—I wouldn’t mind in the slightest if you wanted to come sit with me. He wouldn’t dare face both of us, don’t you think?”

“I—” Peter hesitated, and Hermione realized she probably seemed like she was trying too hard.

“Oh, I don’t mean to push,” she said, slightly distressed and showing it. “I’m just over a little ways, in an alcove like this. I won’t be offended if you don’t come,” Hermione assured him, “just pleased if you do.” She shook her head at herself as she walked away, sure that she’d condemned her plan to include Peter more by very likely frightening the man into wanting to stay away from her for the rest of his life.

Hermione was proved wrong, however, when a half hour later she looked up to see Peter walking toward her with his things levitated at his side.


	39. Parchment and Evergreen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ Decided to make a Spotify playlist for the story.](https://open.spotify.com/user/darsynia/playlist/2QHMCRsJXdhF0W7jsAdobT)

I need some distraction  
Oh, beautiful release  
Memory seeps from my veins

It’s easier to believe in this sweet madness, oh  
This glorious sadness that brings me to my knees  
- _Angel, Sarah McLachlan_

 

Transfiguration class, Sirius decided, was a LOT more fun when one’s girlfriend was present. It was _especially_ interesting when she was stubbornly determined to pay attention to the lesson, no matter how he attempted to distract her. The few mischievous non-verbal spells he knew from memory were far too ostentatious to use in McGonagall’s classroom, however, and he was running out of quiet little things to send her way to get her to look in his direction. After his Head of House narrowed her eyes at him for a few seconds following his attempt to conjure a miniature shooting star to send to Hermia’s desk, Sirius decided to give up. It wouldn’t do to earn his girlfriend detention for something he’d done, after all.

He decided he should choose to be grateful; after so much joking about what would happen during an Animagi lesson with McGonagall, today was finally the day when she taught that subject in their class.

“As you can see,” the professor was saying to the class, “any distinguishing characteristics of the witch or wizard Animagus translates to their animal form—like so.” At this, the grey-haired teacher reached up a hand and, with a slightly wry look on her face, touched her squarish spectacles before transforming into her cat form. Sirius had only seen her morph like this a few times, this being the first since he’d learned how to do it himself. He felt his skin tingle in a sort of empathetic reaction, suddenly wondering with a small shudder of fear if fellow Animagi could recognize the same talent in others when shifted. He felt Lupin’s body beside him give a little shake of its own, and Sirius looked to his right to see that his friend was laughing.

“Do you think that explains the antlers?” Remus whispered to him, glancing back to where Potter was sitting with Peter. Sirius’ fear melted away into amusement as he shot a look over his shoulder at Prongs, who had a slightly disturbed look on his face and was touching his unkempt hair gingerly with one hand. It was very easy to imagine exactly what his thought process was—and with the full moon coming so soon, Sirius wondered if he and the others were going to be subjected to a series of hair mussing and transformation from Potter, with desperate entreaties to inspect the altered glory of his antlers. He winked at Peter, who seemed to be barely controlling his mirth at their friend’s anxious reaction.

“Probably,” Sirius finally responded to Remus. “Can you sense any of what he’s feeling right now?” he asked the werewolf curiously.

“Oh, definitely,” Lupin replied, grinning. “He’s terrified. I doubt he’ll cut his hair anytime soon.”

“He is rather proud of his rack,” Sirius said cheekily, earning himself an answering grin and a shake of the head from his desk partner. “I wonder if Padfoot would turn up less menacing if I cut half of this off,” he mused, fingering his own shaggy black hair thoughtfully.

“I think your girlfriend would probably be a little disappointed,” Lupin observed before turning back to his notes and tuning him out. Sirius couldn’t help but blush slightly—he didn’t think anyone else had noticed Mia’s affection for touching his hair. The blush deepened when he looked up to see that _finally_ , Hermia was looking at him. She smiled, their eyes met—and then her attention was caught by something behind him. He watched as her eyes widened for a long second before she stifled a laugh and turned away.

Sirius turned to see what had caused her reaction, but all he saw was a still-worried James Potter and a highly amused Peter Pettigrew. _He_ understood what was so funny, but how did _she_?

“Mr. Black.” The whipcrack sound of Professor Minerva McGonagall’s stern voice pulled his face forward as though she’d cast _Imperio_. “Do you have something _useful_ to add to our discussion on Animagus transformations?”

The question had been meant rhetorically, of course—a way of reminding him that he was disrupting her class, but it caused some of the other students in the room to go to great lengths to stifle their laughter. Given how early in age he, James, and Peter had been when they’d learned to transfigure into animals, the three of them absolutely would have had something useful to say about it.

=====

> _Dear Hermione,_
> 
> _Transfiguration class was very amusing today. The lesson itself was fascinating! All about Animagi—and Professor McGonagall was nowhere near finished with the theory behind the subject when class was dismissed, so I look forward to Wednesday’s (and perhaps Friday’s, as well!) class with much enthusiasm._
> 
> _Today’s lesson was mostly about distinguishing markings—and I nearly had to sit on my hand when the professor brought up the subject, because she demonstrated by transforming herself into the cat with spectacle markings around her eyes. All I could think about was that horrid Rita Skeeter! The beetle she turns into (how FAIR is that, by the way, that the detestable woman can turn into something so SMALL? I always have wondered if she taught herself just like Sirius, James, and Peter, but Circe forbid I ask her about it. I KNOW she’ll try to figure out where I got the idea) has markings around her beady little eyes just like those pointy glasses she wears._
> 
> _Anyway, it dawned on me that Sirius’ hair IS quite long and slightly shaggy (cue disgusting romantic reminiscing about touching his hair…I really do love it, no matter how much I sound like Lavender), and so is Padfoot’s fur. When I turned to look at him I saw James out of the corner of my eye—I nearly fell off of my chair._
> 
> _He was touching his disheveled hair with a look so easily translatable that I had to turn around in order to keep myself from laughing so loud I’d lose House points. You could almost HEAR him—‘what if I cut this off, would my antlers still look good?’_
> 
> _I’ve never even seen his stag, and I could still imagine him saying that…I guess you could count Harry’s Patronus as ‘seeing James as a stag,’ but would it look similar, even if Harry’d never seen it? Ohhh maybe Harry saw it as a child! If they were hiding out somewhere, it might not have been as dangerous to shift into his Animagus form with no one around to see it but his family, and I can’t picture James not wanting to show off for his own son…_
> 
> _I should look that up. Where could I look that up? I will have to think on it._
> 
> _Oh, right—I haven’t even gotten to the funny part yet. Sirius must have noticed James too, because not a minute after I turned my head back to the front of class, Professor McGonagall called out his name and asked him if he had anything to add to the discussion of Animagus transformations!_
> 
> _I think Lily must have assumed my laughing was because_ she _was laughing, but I really must be more careful! Argh!_
> 
> _Moving on: I still haven’t spoken to Remus about the book he left me. I just don’t know what to say! I don’t consider myself a pro at lying, and I know the full moon is close—I’m not going to be able to simply go up to him and ask him if lycanthropy is the reason he’s sick every month! He’ll know I’m hiding something…namely the fact that I KNEW ALREADY… but I really shouldn’t put it off, or he’ll know I’m trying to avoid it. Lupin wouldn’t just hand a friend a book on werewolves the week before the full moon and believe that they’re just not clever enough to work it out. Another thing—I have no idea if he told the others what he did. I doubt I’ll be any better at playing dumb with them when Remus doesn’t show up at breakfast tomorrow, should they ask me if I’ve read any good books lately, or something._
> 
> _Did I mention that this is all getting so complicated? And here, I thought the complicated part would be fighting Vol—err…He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. I really don’t think I want to alert him to my presence here, even if I am NOT afraid of his name as I used to be…_
> 
> _I miss Harry, and Ron, and Ginny, and…life was so much simpler without this tapestry of deception, affection, lies, and life-or-death situations_

“What are you writing?”

Hermione jumped in surprise, shutting her journal so quickly that she caught her thumb with the edge of it, causing her hiss in pain. _Had he read anything_? The last sentence wouldn’t fail in the very least to have caused someone like Sirius to look worried, or suspiciously angry at worst, if he’d seen it. However, Sirius simply looked confused and curious.

“I’m sorry—it’s a diary,” Hermione said truthfully, knowing that what she’d just been writing about—her inability to dissemble—would play a big part here if she wasn’t very careful.

“You don’t want me to read it. I understand,” Sirius said playfully, draping himself on the arm of the chair she was seated in and looking down at her with a (completely contrived) wounded expression on his face.

Hermione chose to go the route of the unsympathetic.

“It’s a _diary_ , Sirius—of _course_ I don’t want you to read it!”

“No, no—I understand, really,” Sirius claimed, turning his face toward the fire as though he knew the flickering lights would illuminate his melancholy far better than further protests.

“Everyone has secrets, Sirius,” Hermione said in the barest of whispers, reaching up to touch his hand lightly. “Some are just more secret than others.” Before she could elaborate or he could react, however, the mood shifted back to playful when the last of the others stood up to head to bed.

“Shall I conjure you a single white rose, for effect?” Remus offered impishly as he collected his things. Lupin had been looking distracted for most of the evening, and Hermione was fairly certain that it stemmed from the heightened senses he gained as the moon waxed towards full. She wished she could look up the date that the Wolfsbane potion had been announced; she couldn’t do much more than hope it would be sooner rather than later.

“Good night, Remus,” Hermione said in a low voice, not wishing to add to his aural pain.

“Good night, and good luck with him,” the werewolf said in the voice of someone offering condolences, nodding toward their mutual friend.

“Doesn’t _anyone_ take me seriously?” lamented Black.

“We do, when you’re serious,” Lupin said with a wink. “Night Padfoot.”

“You’re not clever!” Sirius called after his friend. “So, back to schoolwork, then?” he asked her as she leaned over to retrieve a book and a roll of parchment paper.

“Yes—care to help?” she asked him with a hint of mischief in her eyes. “I’m starting our essay on Animagus transformations.”

“We don’t even _have_ an essay on—”

“I’m starting early—I’m sure she’ll assign one,” Hermione explained, wondering if he’d take the opportunity she was handing him to tell her _his_ secret. When she looked up at him, however, she could tell that his thoughts were far from schoolwork or secrets. She could feel her temperature rising and quickly looked back at the blank paper in front of her. Romantic books had once seemed so out of line with what normal people experienced, but now? Hermione was half-convinced she’d be able to write her own by the end of two months spent in 1977. Her heart rate had almost returned to normal when she felt his body move—she just knew he’d leaned over with the sole purpose of smelling her hair.

Sirius Black was certainly a force to be reckoned with, that was for sure.

“You know, I had thought it was rubbish at the time,” Sirius said, lifting his eyes to look at her with eyes lit by a specific intent, “but I really did smell something in that Amortentia potion.” Hermione froze, her attempts to start up a discussion about a possible essay fading from her as adrenaline rushed through her bloodstream. 

“Of _course_ you smelled something in the potion,” she said, furious with herself at the slightly squeaky quality in her voice. “Everyone does.”

“Do you want to know what it was?” Sirius asked her softly in her ear, having slid his body down so that they were on eye level. Hermione shook her head, though her heart was begging her rational mind to allow him to answer. “I smelled parchment paper,” he whispered unbidden. 

Somewhere in the back of her mind she registered that the now crumpled paper under her hand would be useless for something as important as an essay.

Sirius opened his mouth as though to continue; she could feel his breath on her neck and knew she had to stop him—she had promised herself that she wouldn’t allow herself to fall so far! How to stop him ( _don’t stop him!_ ), though?

“Oh Merlin—Sirius, that reminds me: do you still have Snape’s love potion?” Hermione gasped out just as he’d started to speak again. The turmoil inside of her was incredible, but she told herself firmly that a promise was a promise, and the more of them she kept breaking, the more shattered her future would become.

“Yes,” came the slightly startled reply. Hermione reached up with the hand closest to him and wove it into his hair, trying to convey that she really did care that he was trying to be romantic, despite her desperate change of subject. Sirius looked as though he’d accept the seque gracefully. “I still have his potion—I’ve been trying to think of the best way to use it.”

_I’ll BET you are_ , Hermione thought to herself.

“Well, it’s only a potion,” she said aloud, trying to convince herself (and him, if possible) that nothing _too_ drastic could be accomplished with a weak love potion. “There’s not really much you can do with it.”

“Why are you so worried about this all of a sudden?” he inquired with a hint of jealousy. Hermione had to stifle a snort— _Sirius_ jealous of _Snape_ had to rank pretty high on her ‘Surreal Experiences’ list.

“Oh, well—he was one of the few Slytherins that weren’t overtly hostile to me,” she offered in explanation, stretching the truth ever so slightly.

“You probably didn’t get much chance to talk with him, then,” he said with a hint of bitterness in his voice. Hermione had always wondered if the two men’s animosity had been fuelled more from school encounters than afterwards, but now didn’t seem like the time to pry, and Sirius was still talking. “I’m sure he doesn’t need you to champion his cause, though,” Sirius was saying now.

“I would defend _anyone_ if I thought they were being treated unfairly!” Hermione turned to look at him, more than a little upset that he thought she would speak up for Snape simply because he’d been one of the few Slytherins who _hadn’t_ been cruel to her. The ironic thing is that she could prove it—but not without explaining why her being tolerant, even _kind_ to Peter was such a sacrifice.

“I’m sorry,” he said, his face set as though made of stone, but his voice sincere. “We don’t get along.”

“He’s a grumpy loner and you’re as stubborn as a rock,” Hermione said, reaching up to kiss him. “I can’t imagine why!” The stone melted, and he kissed her back.

“I’m glad one of us is stubborn.” Sirius grinned at her, his impish expression reminding her of how his persistence had brought them together in the first place.

“Oh, I’m stubborn,” Hermione assured him, deciding to prove it by going to bed early. “Goodnight, Sirius.”

She stood up, and he expressed his exasperation with her example by sliding from the arm of the chair into the seat she had just vacated.

“Did I mention cruel?” he grumbled as she finished placing all of her things into her bag.

“Yes, I would say Snape would sometimes count as cruel,” she said, tipping her head to the side thoughtfully. That hadn’t been what he meant—and she dearly loved playing deliberately obtuse with him—but as her professor, Snape _had_ been cruel at times.

When she reached the bottom of the stairs, Hermione looked back at him. The light from the fire was again flickering across his face, and she could see the darkened grey of his eyes clearly, even across the room. It touched her heart, and reminded her of her own persuasion—that this man deserved to be loved, however briefly.

“Sirius?” she called out, causing a few of the other Gryffindors in the common room to look up at her. The public nature of their attention gave her the bravery she needed—he was impulsive, but she didn’t think he’d try to follow her after what she was about to say, not with others to witness it. “I smelled something in the _Amortentia_ potion, too,” Hermione admitted. “I smelled evergreen.”

Before she could regret her implication, she turned and fled up the staircase to the women’s dormitories, missing the display of surprise, delight, and smug satisfaction that played across her boyfriend’s face at her words.


	40. Disarming Charm

I love the time and in between  
The calm inside me  
In the space where I can breathe  
I believe there is a  
Distance I have wandered  
To touch upon the years of  
Reaching out and reaching in  
Holding out, holding in  
 _-Elsewhere, Sarah McLachlan_

 

When she woke the next morning, Hermione was surprised to find that she didn’t feel any different than she had the night before. She was almost disappointed—a declaration of love, however subtly it had been implied… well, it ought to have changed everything, oughtn’t it? What did it mean that she felt the same? These troubling thoughts nagged at her as she went about her morning routine, and it wasn’t until she was within sight of the Great Hall that Hermione realized something important she’d been missing.

She didn’t feel upset, either. In fact, what she really felt was… content.

Somehow _that_ was even more disturbing than her previous supposition, and she didn’t have time to puzzle on it any longer before she neared the Gryffindor table laden with breakfast food. 

“Good morning, Mia,” James said casually as he reached across the table to snag a forkful of sausage. She felt a wave of pleasure cross her body at this unexpected greeting, even as Peter and Lily shot the Quidditch player looks of alarm. While ‘Mia’ had until now been a nickname only Sirius had called her, it made her feel very happy that Harry’s father had picked up on it. She hadn’t known it until that very moment, but having a nickname that only her closest friends called her was something she’d always wanted.

Hermione almost returned with, ‘Hello, Prongs’ before she stopped herself and chose to call him by his given name. To draw attention to the whole ‘secret nickname’ thing seemed like it would cheapen this new experience for her.

“Hello, James. Feeling particularly brave this morning?” This comment referred more to the slight pouting glower on Sirius’ face than the reason for his sour expression.

“As a matter of fact, I do,” Potter answered gaily, flagging slightly when his friend narrowed his eyes warningly. “I’ve… uh… got Quidditch practice tonight,” he added quickly before turning to speak to Lily about something. Hermione smiled to herself as she laid a gentle hand on Sirius’ shoulder to assist herself in taking the seat beside him. _Well, this day is certainly starting out lovely,_ she thought to herself—for, the very instant she touched him, her boyfriend’s tenseness seemed to dissipate, even though his facial expression remained unchanged. 

“Morning Lily,” Hermione called to her friend, who flashed her a sympathetic smile, one eyebrow shooting up as her green eyes darted in Sirius’ direction. “Good morning, Sirius,” she continued, her heart dropping in her chest a bit when he didn’t respond. Once she was fully seated, however, he made it all better, taking her hand from her lap to his and clasping it firmly in his large hand, all the while never changing his facial expression or eye line.

She felt well and truly claimed. There was something so sexy about his taking possession of her hand, knowing he didn’t need to ask permission or even look at her to communicate how he felt. Unfortunately, whether it was due to his influence or her own inner sense of mischief, his single-minded concentration gave her an idea.

“Sleep well, did you?” she dangled, being sure to lean against his arm as she whispered her question. Sirius squeezed her hand, but otherwise didn’t react. Hermione wasn’t daunted. She looked down at his plate and back at his face, which hadn’t moved a muscle. “Ohhh, my favorite kind of Danish,” she said in a falsely excited voice, watching him closely for his reaction as she reached for the pastry with her free hand.

Still no reaction.

Hermione was starting to wonder if Sirius was actually angry at his friend…

“Bloody _hell_ , Padfoot!” James cried, who had looked over at them having apparently forgotten that Sirius had been staring balefully at him for the past five minutes. 

Sirius slowly began to smile, and she realized with a sharp stab of admiration that this was what he’d been planning the whole time. James was definitely not on the ‘all clear’ list to use her new nickname, that was for sure.

Hermione tried to stifled her laugh as she looked across the table at James’ dripping glasses—in his surprise he’d fumbled with his cup of pumpkin juice and it had gone _everywhere_. She couldn’t see Peter’s face, obscured as it was by that day’s copy of the Prophet—but she could see the paper twitching with the young man’s laughter. Lily was long gone; Hermione spotted her at the table nearby, talking to her Potions partner and studiously ignoring their table. Privately, she thought it was wise of her friend—James wasn’t likely to be very reasonable about all of this.

“Now that that’s settled,” Sirius said nonchalantly, “I’ll be taking that back—” Just as she had stopped laughing long enough lift her stolen pastry to her mouth, Sirius snatched it away within inches of her lips. “I slept as well as you did, I expect.” He winked at her frown—she’d been looking forward to that Danish.

“Someone’s a little cocky,” a voice mumbled across from them.

“Calm down, Prongs—pumpkin juice is really good for the skin, or so I’ve heard,” Sirius drawled. James simply sulked.

“I can’t leave you two alone for a minute, can I?” Lily exclaimed, slapping Sirius playfully on the cheek when he stuck his tongue out at her. “What’s put you in such a mood, Sirius?” The redhead settled herself next to her boyfriend and briskly buttered a piece of toast to hand to him before he even realized she was there. Hermione and Peter shared an amused look.

“Remus sang me to sleep last night,” Sirius claimed, outrageously.

“He did no such thing!” Hermione protested without thinking. She nearly went on to lecture them on werewolves heightened hearing and how uncomfortable singing would be for their friend before she remembered—she wasn’t supposed to know about that yet. Even if Lupin had informed their friends about his strange behavior in the library, she doubted he’d come out and confessed that… well, she was _pretty_ sure he had been trying to tell her about his lycanthropy.

To cover the misstep, she began gathering up her things, as it was nearly time for class. Luckily James, Peter, and Lily had each expressed similar doubts about Sirius’ claim, so her adamant statement had (hopefully) not appeared as out of place as she thought originally. 

“You’re right—all of you are right—” the dark-haired boy shook his head, acknowledging that he’d been caught in a lie. His next words shocked Hermione instead of James, this time: “I’m happy because _Mia_ —” a challenging look at James “—told me what she smelled in the love potion.” Sirius looked up at her with a devious twinkle in his eyes, waiting for her reaction.

In that moment, Hermione knew just how far she’d come from the person she’d been just a month and a half earlier. Without missing a beat, she winked at Lily, hefted her bag of books to her shoulder, and spoke.

“It’s true, I did,” she told her friends calmly. “It was cedar,” she lied, walking away from the raucous laughter with a confidence she normally only felt after turning in an essay.

=====

Sirius realized halfway up the stairs to the boys’ dormitories that he’d originally intended to give the much-contended Danish from his plate to Remus for breakfast. He shook his head ruefully, looking down at the two small muffins he’d wrapped in a handkerchief and hoping they would be enough. Hermia seemed to be getting better at keeping him off-balance… her comment at the end of breakfast had been just perfect—concealing their true conversation with humor and thrusting him in the middle of an awkward situation as a reward for bringing it up in the first place.

She was perfect for him.

“Are you going to hand me my breakfast, or should we swap nicknames, ‘Moony,’ Lupin asked him in a low voice. Sirius looked around to find that he was standing right next to his friend’s bed. He opened his mouth to protest in some way, and Remus smiled at him in that annoying way he had, waiting for the snappy comeback.

“I—I’ve got nothing,” Sirius admitted finally, grinning and handing him his food. “Mia made me eat your Danish,” he said without elaboration as Remus started eating.

“I’m sure she did,” the werewolf said, mildly. His next statement was spoken in such a matter-of-fact tone that Sirius almost missed the importance of it. “I’m going to tell her about my ‘furry little problem.’”

Black glanced up, quickly, to find that Lupin was looking over at him with quiet dignity. “Well, she can certainly be trusted to know about it,” he said carefully, pleased to see Remus nodding at this. “I can’t think of her as someone who would be disgusted—”

“I think—” the other man stopped as though surprised at his own interruption, almost as if he hadn’t intended to speak so soon. “I think maybe she knows someone who has been bitten,” he finished.

This was a new development, and Sirius got to his feet, moving to lean casually against his friend’s bedpost. It made him sad to think of Hermia having the painful experience of watching someone she cared about go through what Remus had to. Lupin must have been able to read his expression, judging by his next words.

“I actually _handed_ her a book on lycanthropy,” he admitted, “—and she told me she hadn’t read it yet.” The two students shared a look—they both knew Hermia to be one of the most thorough researchers they’d ever met, and her use of the word ‘yet’ was quite telling. 

“It could have been for a report, or something,” Sirius argued, not at all comfortable with the thought of Hermia in contact with some strange werewolf. 

“It isn’t like her,” Remus pressed. “That book is well-respected… she would have read it if she’d had the chance…” he looked pensive. “Hogwarts’ library is far more extensive than the one in Diagon Alley.”

“You’re saying she did as much research as—”

“—a Muggle-born new to our world would know how to do, yes.” Lupin gave him a tight smile, and then he began speaking again in the voice Sirius recognized as the ‘Remus Changes The Subject’ tone. “I’m also saying nothing else for now, as you’re already late to class. Thank you for bringing me breakfast, Padfoot.”

“Always, Moony,” Sirius said, squeezing his friend’s foot and heading for the door.

=====

DADA class started without any booby-trapped desks, much to Hermione’s relief—though, there were no desks to be seen, which was a new development. The students entered cautiously but confidently; each had a wary demeanor, but the upright posture of students who felt they’d learned enough to deal with whatever they might face. Hermione felt a sense of pride as well as a strange sort of belonging—no longer were there House boundaries in this classroom, this was simply a class willing and eager to learn the next lesson.

“Wands at the ready,” Professor Sapiens warned them (Hermione had to resist the urge to do a double-take… as always the charismatic professor’s behavior and mannerisms reminded her very much of Remus’ future behavior in this very same classroom), her own wand level with her chest and held as though she were planning to strike at any moment—which she did.

“ _Expelliarmus!_ ” 

The charm caught a gangly Hufflepuff boy completely by surprise, his wand flying in a tight arc over his head as he stepped back involuntarily with the force behind the spell. It was a testament to Vera Sapiens’ teaching style that he neither appeared to be embarrassed, nor did she seem disappointed. They young man simply nodded wryly and headed off to retrieve his wand.

“Always be prepared,” Sapiens intoned, pacing the room in front of them as the remaining students moved in relation to her. “This spell does more than disarm,” she told the class, “it shifts the advantage with little more than a word—an incantation you learn in your first few years of— _Expelliarmus!_ ”

“ _Protego!_ ” Snape’s shield spell wavered but held in the face of their teacher’s surprise attack. 

“Very good—take five points for Slytherin,” the professor said approvingly before addressing the class as a whole again. “In defending yourself against another witch or wizard, it is important to note that emotions and personal pride can often be a powerful factor.” As she spoke, the blonde woman mounted the stairs that led to her office, stopping at the small landing and turning to face the class. At that height, her eye line was almost even with the large chandelier that hung from the center of the ceiling. “Would you say I’m more intimidating to the lot of you?” she asked, flinging her wand hand melodramatically in their direction to answer her own question—fully half of the students backed away, even though she was almost a full twenty feet away from them.

Hermione could hear James whispering something to Sirius but stifled her curiosity; this class was definitely not one in which distractions were welcome. 

“Why is it,” Professor Sapiens was asking now, “that a little vertical distance makes you wary? _Intimidation_ ,” she answered herself firmly. “Talent and instinct, awareness and knowledge—these things can only take you so far when dealing with a human opponent. The mental advantage— _Expelliarmus!_ ”

The distance _was_ intimidating. From her vantage point, the professor could cast her spells with little indication as to who they were intended for—and Hermione was one of four students to hurriedly cast shield charms. When the flash of light bounced harmlessly off of a space just in front of her, the first thing she thought of was Harry. _We’ve got to do something like this in the DA—because Merlin knows we’re going to need to be ready for the unexpected,_ she thought. _Besides, I’m sure Harry would LOVE teaching a lesson like this…_

“Excellent!” their teacher crowed from across the room. “Five points to Gryffindor for Miss James, and take a point each for being prepared—Mr. Potter, Miss Yaxley, and Mr. Avery.”

Hermione started violently. Avery was a name she recognized from overheard discussions at #12, Grimmauld Place… The more she thought about it, the better she understood the day’s lesson to be more than simply a stepping-stone to the N.E.W.T.s. She and nearly everyone she cared about were…well… in a _war_ —one that split their whole _society_ into factions. 

_Factions that weren’t always as clear-cut_ , Hermione reminded herself as she saw Sirius and James with their heads together at the back of the group of students. The lesson they’d learned in Fifth Year from the girl Marietta’s betrayal had been a harsh one, and might not be their last. She couldn’t _imagine_ , what it could possibly be like—what it _must_ have been like to be betrayed by one’s closest friend. She just didn’t think that anyone—

Hermione’s wand soared from her hand, and at the same time she felt as if some unseen force had shoved her bodily against a brick wall that wasn’t there. It was an extraordinarily strange sensation, made more bearable by Sirius’ familiar embrace preventing her from toppling backwards. She shook her head ruefully.

“If you don’t mind, Miss James—would you tell us what you were thinking of just before you were hit?” The professor’s voice was friendly, and it encouraged Hermione to be truthful… though her mind supplied a possible ‘valid reason’ for her inattention.

“I don’t suppose I could convince you that I _wanted_ to be disarmed, to experience what it would be like if I failed to shield myself in time?”

The class laughed in unison, and Vera Sapiens’ laughter rung out along with them. She moved down the stairs from her lofty position quickly, her customary long braid keeping rhythm with her steps as she moved. The DADA professor cast a spell to retrieve Hermione’s wand, but the spell’s initial failure registered to no one else—they were listening to Hermione’s explanation.

“To be honest, professor—I was thinking about how awful it would be to have one of your friends turn on you,” she confessed.

“ _Accio wand!_ ” The older woman held the magical object out to Hermione; for a split second her eyes had an odd, guarded quality, but there wasn’t time to dwell on any more distractions. “Disarming spells do more than disarm,” Professor Sapiens nodded. “They can be demoralizing—your wand is your tangible link to your own power. Having that stripped away unexpectedly could turn the tide of an entire battle.”

For a horrible second, Hermione thought that the rest of the class time would be spent attacking one another for practice—and considering the class makeup, that scenario would be a little too close to the war of the near future for comfort. She was glad to have been mistaken—throughout the rest of that class, Professor Sapiens discussed different possibilities of protection against the disarming charm, and even had each student experience the spell deliberately—with the exception of Hermione and the tall Hufflepuff boy who had been the class ‘guinea pig.’ Hermione learned that his name was Paul McMillan.

After she’d dismissed all of them for lunch, the professor called out for Hermione to stay and speak to her for a minute. 

“You have quite the recalcitrant wand,” the blonde woman said without preamble. “Is ‘Hermia’ a nickname, by any chance?” The question caught Hermione off guard, which after nearly two hours of that day’s lesson wasn’t quite as unexpected a feeling as it normally would have been. 

“It is a nickname… of sorts,” she answered cautiously. Suddenly the strange, almost wary look that had flashed in the teacher’s eyes as she’d handed Hermione her wand made more sense. The other woman’s silence stretched to fill the room, and while it was clear that Sapiens was attempting to draw out the truth by not offering any questions or feedback, Hermione found it impossible not to offer more information. “My parents don’t always understand or appreciate the wizarding world,” she supplied, truthfully. “I don’t think they would fully approve of how I came to be here.” 

Hermione’s heart was pounding, wondering if the woman opposite her was in any way skilled in Legilimency. One of the things that Molly Weasley had been completely adamant about when it became clear that Harry, Hermione, Ron, and the rest of the Weasley children didn’t intend to remain on the sidelines in regards to the fight ahead was that they learn the basics of Occlumency. The most basic lesson, they learned, is to learn how to dissemble—to speak _around_ the truth as much as possible.

“Wheels within wheels,” Professor Sapiens said. Hermione recognized the quote, and gave her teacher a grim smile. “You’re a very talented witch, and I think we both know that there is real power to be found in names,” the woman reached out and squeezed her hand in a gesture that seemed to be less about comfort than of recognizing something kindred between them. 

Hermione decided then and there that nothing would stop her from finding out what had happened to this woman in her own time.

=====

“So, do you now know the secret answer to everything?” James asked her with a tinge of jealousy in his voice when she met he and Sirius in the hallway outside the classroom.

“42,” Hermione responded, almost on instinct. The baffled look that the two handsome young men exchanged at this was so adorable that she had to laugh. When Sirius shook his head at her in confusion, she simply shook her head back.

“It’s a Muggle thing,” Hermione said with a grin.


	41. Foolishness Foreshadowed

  
“Though this be madness, yet there is method in it”  
- _Hamlet, William Shakespeare_

 

Her two companions continued to shoot her perplexed looks as the three of them made their way through the halls, heading to lunch. Hermione was preoccupied with the realization that it was quite possible _The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy_ hadn’t yet been published in 1977… until she looked up and saw Severus Snape turn the corner in the far distance. When he lifted his head to toss his dark hair from his eyes, he made brief eye contact with her. She offered him a small smile, unwilling to force a young man she knew to be very proud into remembering that they’d shared an emotional moment not long ago, even if it had been by chance.

It turned out that even this small gesture was enough to cause her future professor to alter his course. Snape made an elegant U-turn, evoking a strong memory of his adult self as his school robes eddied around him in a very dramatic way. He held his back straight and his head high as he walked unhurriedly out of sight—but Hermione would have dearly loved to know what the expression on his face might be.

“Looks like Snivellus doesn’t trust us,” James said in a voice that hinted at repressed laughter.

“I can’t imagine what would give him that idea…” Sirius nudged James conspiratorially.

Hermione felt completely awful. It looked like neither of them had learned a _thing_ from the awful trick they’d played on Severus and Remus in their Fifth year! The two pranksters continued to nudge each other as they walked on in front of her, Hermione’s steps faltering increasingly as she pondered what she’d just seen. She became more and more upset as it appeared the two of them were not only unrepentant about their actions, but were so busy congratulating themselves about the whole thing that they’d forgotten her presence completely.

“Hermia?” It was James, proving her wrong, as he had paused to find out why she’d fallen behind. Looking up and into his eyes was an experience Hermione would never forget—she’d schooled her features into a countenance as far away from the indignant fury she felt, lifting her gaze only to see _Harry_ looking back at her from hazel eyes. It was an expression she’d seen only rarely from her best friend, but she recognized it immediately. 

In the split second that she gaped at James Potter, she saw Harry in Second year, looking at Justin Finch-Fletchley with regret after he’d frightened them all with Parseltongue. She saw Harry in Fourth year, watching as Ron walked away from him in disgust over the Tri-Wizard Tournament. In his father’s eyes, she saw a reflection of each time Harry had done something impulsively and wished he hadn’t; the way he would try to conceal it with pride and the way she thought she might be the only one who knew that look for what it truly was. She recognized it now—James _did_ regret what he’d done, but he’d be damned if he would admit it, behaving just as his son would in the future.

“I—I’m sorry,” she said, still a dazed by the short experience. She decided to be truthful. “For a minute there, you looked like someone else.”

“I hope it’s a good reminder,” James said before gesturing that she proceed ahead of him into the Great Hall. She was grateful that Sirius had already gone inside and James was behind her, because it meant she didn’t have to conceal the brief tears that coursed down her cheeks, drying completely by the time she reached the table.

=====

She was pacing again. She hated that, because it was a clear indication that her mind was in disarray, and she really disliked appearing as anything other than someone in complete control. The thing was, she had a tantalizing chance before her, and there simply _had_ to be a way to take it without messing with the future. She forced herself to stand still and think, only to look down and see that she was twisting her hands anxiously.

Minerva McGonagall sighed. The truth was, she had been completely captivated by this ‘Hermione Granger’s’ ideas. They were the sort of thing she would gladly spend years of her life exploring—except doing so would be completely against her nature. The prospect of waiting two decades before she could even delve into the information hadn’t been softened at all by the conclusions she was able to come to by watching the way the girl interacted with Albus and herself…

The Transfiguration professor moved from the carpet in the middle of her office to arrange papers on her desk as her conscience twinged at her last thought. “Well, it _is_ a war,” she muttered a trifle defensively to the empty room. “Why not take encouragement from a Muggle-born student who has clearly spent seven happy years at Hogwarts?” _A_ brilliant _Muggle-born,_ she added, silently. The young woman was remarkably self-assured, despite her nervous behavior at the prospect of jeopardizing her secrecy via a school assignment, of all things. Her attitude indicated strong trust in her headmaster, and deep respect for her head of house, which was strangely touching.

It also meant that the two of them were definitely ‘alive and kicking’ (as her American counterpart had once said, in their sporadic correspondence) twenty years in the future. 

Rather than sitting at her desk and inevitably smoothing out the parchment essay for another look, Minerva walked over to her office window and looked out at the grounds, wondering as she did so what she would be doing in twenty years’ time. Little did she know that it would include discovering Hogwarts’ youngest Seeker in a century, simply by looking out of that same window.

=====

“ _Wingardium Leviosa!_ ”

The words were spoken softly, but Remus heard as well as _felt_ the amused and playful tone in which Sirius spoke them. He also felt the pillow he’d placed on the back of his head slowly moving away as if pulled by string rather than a levitating spell. He couldn’t see the grin that was sure to be on his friend’s face, as he himself was lying on his stomach in bed listening to the few students chatting with each other in the common room. He could, however, sense his friend’s mischievous spirit but couldn’t resist thrusting his arm in the direction his pillow was moving. Predictably, Sirius quickened his speed, and Lupin wished he’d chosen to fall asleep wand in hand, for it would have been simply priceless to manipulate the cushion so that it landed on Padfoot’s face rather than his lap.

“Any particular reason for waking me up, Black?” Remus asked gruffly, his voice muffled by a faceful of sheet. In reality, he knew that Sirius had brought him some food, but as it consisted mostly of black pudding (he could smell it very clearly), which turned Lupin’s stomach on a _normal_ day, he wasn’t inclined to be grateful. 

“I wanted to test your reflexes,” Sirius claimed, reaching out for Lupin’s wand on the cabinet beside his bed. Not only did Remus have his wand in three seconds flat, he’d also used one of his arsenal of non-verbal spells to push his House-mate back onto his own bed.

“Did I pass?” he asked, smirking.

“I guess I should be glad I wasn’t with my back to the _floor_.”

“If you had, I’d have made sure you landed on _my pillow_ ,” Lupin assured him.

“Good to know,” Sirius stated, unfazed. He felt around on the floor for the parcel of food he’d smuggled up to the tower, sending the werewolf vibes of anticipation as he located it. “Would you like your dinner, Moony?”

“Do I need to answer that?” Remus leaned his head back against his remaining pillow, frowning. “I could smell it halfway down the stairs, Sirius.”

“I thought you were asleep,” Black objected.

“It was _that_ strong.”

“All that work for nothing. If Filch had caught me with this…” the other boy dangled, irrepressibly.

Lupin felt a twinge of annoyance. Sirius _knew_ how he felt about foods that contained blood, particularly around the full moon. He hated anything that reminded him of what his unwilling ‘animal form’ really meant. It went against everything that he defined himself as, a fact not without a depressing kind of irony. _Well, as long as he is determined to remind me about all that, I’ll shift the subject to something more his style…_

“So did you venture into the library to research our History of Magic essay—” Sirius made a face that answered that question immediately “—or did you spend the day planning tomorrow night’s activities?” This earned him a grin, and a decided increase in his friend’s anticipatory energy.

“What do you think about reinforcing those ghost rumors?” Padfoot answered, excitedly. “We could scout the woods near Hogsmeade—”

“No—Sirius, no people,” Remus interrupted gently, but firmly. The mere thought of the danger involved with risking the lives of the villagers for a spot of fun brought the gorge up in his throat. He loved Sirius, but he dearly wished there was a way to check his friend’s wild behavior without coming across as a substitute authority figure. He knew full well that the other boy would react to the opposite extreme when faced with that kind of censure.

=====

Sirius winced inwardly. He’d gotten ahead of himself again; sometimes his mischievous nature prompted him to say or do the first thing that popped into his mind, regardless of the situation. Making _that_ suggestion so soon after bringing the werewolf a supper that always reminded him of the awful thing he became each month—he felt like he’d let Remus down. _Merlin, I probably have, judging by the look on his face_ , Sirius realized. Normally he’d have already felt that part of himself that reared up and demanded that he _never_ play the part of a subservient again—but this time when he looked at his best friend, he saw a sad resignation that chastised him with more genuine regret than his mother had ever managed with excessive cruelty.

“I’m sorry, Remus,” he said sincerely, and he really was.

_Maybe I’m growing up…_

Lupin raised an eyebrow, and though Sirius had managed to wipe away the painful look of acceptance his classmate had been wearing a minute earlier, what replaced it was a pretty good imitation of abject shock. He’d have been completely taken in by Moony’s act, had it not been for the tell-tale wrinkle in his brow that always appeared when he was trying not to smile.

He bit back a grin. Remus was so predictable. Sirius lifted his wand, aiming it at Peter’s bed (which, incidentally, contained some quite compact cushions that really packed a punch when levitated at speed from across the room)—

—and swung the now-forgotten pillow from the floor at the distracted young man in the bed beside him, taking Remus by utter surprise. His companion was nearly knocked flat, and though he was fairly sure Lupin realized what was going on a few seconds before he was struck, Sirius still congratulated himself on managing to get the advantage on the werewolf, advanced senses and all.

“I meant it, too,” he said firmly.

“You’re forgiven,” Remus promised from beneath the pillow. “Hello, James,” he added.

“I hate it when you do that,” Potter said from the doorway. “Your eyes are covered, and everything—it’s unnatural. So, I assume you’re hungry?”

Sirius allowed himself the luxury of a bit of pouting as Prongs practically pranced into the room ( _All he’s missing are the antlers_ , he snorted to himself) bearing the ham sandwich he’d coaxed from the house-elves. The sidelong glance he was favored with when Lupin practically inhaled the meal didn’t help much, either.

He hated it when James was right, the git never could resist the urge to rub it in.

“Sirius thought it would be funny if he—”

Sirius tuned James out and began scouting the room for pillows. Ever the diplomat, however, Remus brought up the as-yet unformed plan for the next evening. The blasted werewolf even managed to convey the impression that further pillow antics were highly discouraged, mostly by retaining his wand in his hand and stuffing his recently acquired pillow behind his head with a meaningful look in Sirius’ direction. It had been so long since he’d done substantial mischief that he had to resist the urge to stick out his tongue, knowing that Lupin would take that as a confirmation of his devilish intent.

It was then that a strangely bedraggled-looking Peter practically fell into the room. Sirius got up immediately to help his friend to his bed, noting a slight limp and frayed robe. 

James, ever eloquent, expressed the concern of the other half of the Marauders: “Peter, what in _Merlin’s_ name have you done to yourself?”

Even when he leaned closer to Peter’s haggard face, Sirius couldn’t catch much more than the word ‘cat’ from the other boy’s soft mumble—it was enough, however. Uncharacteristically, Sirius contemplated his next statement for a split second… before he blurted it out anyway.

“Did you just say something about a cat?” As a concession to just how upset Pettigrew looked, he reached over and patted his shoulder, just as the other two weighed in with interjections of dawning comprehension.

“You could have been killed!”

“Oh, Peter! Was it Mrs. Norris?”

Sirius decided to remain at the end of the smaller boy’s bed rather than abandon him to his side of the room as he changed to fresh clothes with shaking hands. Peter nodded with a slight shudder at Remus’ soft-spoken inquiry.

=====

He wished he could help soothe Peter—the waves of fear and regret that washed from him in waves were enough to stop him from asking anything further than discovering who or what was culpable. Remus didn’t think anything would have been able to distract him from Peter’s emotions, watching him as he did to be sure that nothing was wounded other than his pride and sense of self—which, admittedly, was bad enough, knowing Peter as he did.

He didn’t smell any blood (and _how_ he wished that subject would refrain from popping up for the remainder of that evening, week, month, or year), and besides the limp he’d detected from watching Pettigrew walk across the room guided by Sirius, he couldn’t see any signs of injury. What ended up surprising him the most, however, was James’ reaction. 

As soon as it had been ascertained that Peter was all right, Prongs launched immediately into a tirade about how special their forms were, how they weren’t to be used lightly (though it didn’t take wolf senses to guess that Sirius’ morning wake-up had more than a little bit to do with _that_ opinion), and how horrible it could have been for the rest of them to have their classmate brutally murdered by _Filch’s cat_ , of all creatures.

_It_ would _be like James to not think about getting_ caught _and think of the indignity of being slain by his nemesis’ cat,_ Remus mused inwardly. It was incredibly touching, furthermore, to find that his first objection was essentially to berate the Animagus for treating his learned talent as though it were anything less than a special gift. Given that he still harbored a little bit of awe at the extent to which his friends would go to make him feel comfortable and cared for, this confirmation of that fact simply humbled him further.

=====

For Sirius, there was only one reaction—other than that of making sure his friend was unhurt, of course—to Peter’s predicament: revenge.

He barely contributed to the ensuing conversation, other than to interject a few noncommittal syllables. His mind was preoccupied with his new task, and each idea was more grandiose, more horrid, and more implausible. When Sirius went to check his trunk for a particularly rare—and potent—itching agent, he came across a vial of black-colored liquid, instead.

One by one his elaborate and impossible schemes drifted away, replaced by a tantalizing possibility—one that could even (if you squinted) resemble an actual experiment.

Are animals affected by love potions?

 

_A/n: Hermione references the Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, by Douglas Adams. The first book in the series was published in 1979, with a radio play with the same premise having been produced in ’78. Therefore, Hermione is the only one who would have gotten the joke in 1977—particularly because the section she referenced is from the third book, written in 1982._


	42. Are You Now, Or Have You Ever Been…

I promise I’m not trying to make your life harder  
Or return to where we were  
I will go down with this ship  
And I won’t put my hands up and surrender  
There will be no white flag above my door,  
I’m in love, and always will be.  
_-White Flag, Dido  
_

 

Severus was late to class, which was to say that he wasn’t early, and thus had to thread his way through the other students of varying ages as they chattered, giggled, and shoved their way down the many hallways and into their classrooms. Being merely _on time_ for Ancient Runes wouldn’t have been as big a problem last year, before Professor Vector had discovered his rather clever shortcut that took him through the Staff wing instead of the heavily populated hallway leading to the Charms, History of Magic, and Ancient Runes classrooms. The fact that he’d detected a strong dose of pity in her mannerisms as she instructed him to keep to the student corridors hadn’t endeared her to him in the slightest.

It helped that he’d managed to catch the moving staircase right as it shifted, transitioning to a floor he knew most of his fellow Seventh years were also headed to. The after-breakfast crowd was there in full force as well, but fewer of the students his age felt it necessary to participate in the childish social games that the younger ones did. He was further comforted when he caught sight of a few recognizable faces; a few Slytherin Prefects were standing in an alcove along the hall, as well as some students from other houses. The closer Snape got to them, however, the more determined he became to research charms that made one imperceptible or possibly even invisible for short periods of time. A detention marking Arithmancy papers would be worth it to avoid _this_ sort of thing.

It was Cassia Crawley, of course. The dominating blonde was complaining in a loud tone about something regarding Prefects, though why she felt the need to broadcast her rant to most of the Seventh year students was beyond him. Meaning to push his way past the knot of students around his fellow housemate, his steps faltered as he noticed Hermia James standing along the outskirts of the circle. The look on her face was drawn, almost wounded, and he groaned inwardly. The sentimental fool was almost certainly going to throw herself in the middle of things with no thought of whether or not it was a bad idea to be on the wrong end of Cassia Crawley’s wrath.

Then again, if she’d survived being in Slytherin for as long as she had without any discernible dent to her naïveté…

“—don’t see why just because there’s a _Gryffindor_ Head Girl and a _Gryffindor_ Headmaster, one of the _Gryffindor_ Prefects gets to skip out!” Miss Crawley seemed to be warming to her subject; Severus recognized the look in her eyes, having been on the receiving end of her particular brand of cruelty when they were both eleven years old and he’d chosen the seat she’d wanted in Transfiguration class. Snape told himself to ignore Hermia, ignore Cassia, and continue his struggle to the end of the hallway and the relative peace of Ancient Runes. Just as he’d passed through most of the throng surrounding the vitriolic Slytherin prefect, however, the thing he didn’t know he had been dreading happened.

“Wouldn’t you want to be given the same courtesy if you were too sick to leave your bed?” Hermia James demanded in a slightly shrill voice. As expected, the sounds of muttering and agreement that had accompanied Cassia’s tirade immediately ceased.

Severus Snape tried to keep walking, he really did—but his legs wouldn’t cooperate. After a full minute of that chilly silence, Miss Crawley finally spoke.

“How quickly you Gryffindors change allegiances,” she said, her tone dripping condescension. 

“How Slytherin of you,” Hermia shot back to Snape’s surprise. “I wonder if that’s why so many from your house have chosen… bad career paths—are people from your House not allowed to change their minds?” Her shrill tone had hardened to a brittle sarcasm, and whether or not she would have appreciated the fact, Severus felt as though at least some of that was prompted by his influence on her. His view of the two girls was blocked, and by the time he’d stared down a few of his classmates in order to get a better vantage point, Cassia had recovered enough from her shock to formulate a reply.

“That’s cute,” she said in the falsely sweet voice that the less perceptive teachers took as warmth. “I know you like the boy, but why don’t you stick to snogging his friend and leave the important stuff to the big kids?”

“It’s just like a Slytherin to think accusing someone of being happy is an insult,” someone behind him said in a low voice. He didn’t take it personally—what most of these soft-hearted Gryffindors didn’t understand was that for Slytherins, it wasn’t about not having any emotional attachments, it had to do with being careful about how and when they allowed their weaknesses to show. By being open about one’s relationships, whether they were beneficial or antagonistic, the persons involved would be essentially giving out free information about themselves. Severus didn’t think even Cassia fully understood the subtlety of that concept either, or she wouldn’t be airing her grievances in such a public fashion.

The professors who were used to having their classrooms full of students had begun to pop their heads out into the hall in order to see why they weren’t, and many of the accumulated Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws had started moving away from the developing fracas. However, the Gryffindors and Slytherins present looked as though wild hippogryphs couldn’t drag them off; they had drifted into a definite polarization of sides, each of the green-clad students glaring at a corresponding red one, and vice versa. 

“Oi! Cassie!” one of the Gryffindors called out from the thickest part of the crowd. “Didn’t you miss a whole week last year because a potion blew up in your face?”

Severus had been there for that—what’s more, he’d caught a glimpse of what Cassia’s face had looked like after the botched Pepperup Potion had practically exploded from her cauldron. He chose not to look at his housemate, deciding instead to glance in Hermia’s direction, half hoping she would realize she was late for class, or something. She seemed to be on the verge of speaking again, her distress evident to him even as he was mostly turned away from her. He supposed that she probably felt responsible for the whole thing, more than likely having completely forgotten that the estimable Miss Crawley had been the one holding court before her. The time had come to leave, he determined. Gryffindors always wanted to fight their own battles anyway, and he wasn’t about to allow any of his fellow classmates to see that he was interested in what happened to someone as vulnerable as Hermia.

At the edge of his vision, two figures suddenly came hurtling around the corner of the long stone hallway, both screeching to a halt upon seeing the impromptu assembly of students. It was Sirius Black and _Potter._ The two boys quickly started toward the group.

 _Just what this blaze needs—more fuel,_ Snape thought to himself. _I don’t want to be one of the ones caught gawping when those two idiots turn this into a detention party._

“There’s a difference between having my potion _sabotaged_ and shirking responsibility!” Cassia’s voice rose over the hum of the crowd by virtue of sheer volume.

“You mean like being in class on time?” Sirius Black shot back, sounding a little out of breath. “Shall we?” he continued, patting the shoulder of the Gryffindor nearest him with a disgustingly wide grin. Snape had to admit some grudging respect. Black had cut the tension expertly, drawing ridicule and amusement to himself with the idea that someone as chronically tardy as he was would be worried about being late.

“You let your sickly little Prefect know I’m going to the Headmaster,” Cassia sniped, clearly unable to accept that her gripe-fest was over. Snape logged her behavior in his mental black book as he and the other students began to walk away, a reminder to himself that Miss Crawley was definitely not someone to count on in a crisis.

“Don’t you think Remus has a good _reason_ to be sick all the time?” Hermia cried out, angrily. Three male students’ steps faltered at the words.

In the seconds after she spoke, Severus Snape’s blood turned to ice and back again as, by pure chance, he and James Potter made eye contact. The usual enmity, jealousy, and general viciousness between them were superceded by a common, secret knowledge—because they both knew that reason. Both of them also knew that a carefully constructed deception could be completely toppled due to her statement, made in an attempt to _defend_ , not strike down. In that brief moment, Snape saw a flicker of something in Potter’s face. Not respect, nor any sort of apology, perhaps simply the recognition of a shared event, something that placed a rip in the absolute of their difference from each other.

Severus didn’t allow himself any time to process this oddity as, carefully expressionless, he turned swiftly and strode through the emptying hallway to his class.

=====

“I thought you ought to know,” James said, his voice, body language, and scent all telegraphing his worry and discomfort. Remus wanted to reach out and squeeze his hand, do something physical to comfort him, but he was _so_ tired and the woolen hat he was wearing to cover his ears was scratchy and hot and it didn’t block sounds worth a damn and he wished he wasn’t so grouchy on _those_ days, because it didn’t feel like him at all. It was bad enough for his body to go about proving that he wasn’t himself, but it affronted the sensitive young man that his whole personality had to undergo a change too, however strongly he might attempt to control it.

“Remus?” James really looked worried, now. _Damn, I did it again. I’m sorry I’m like this, James, I really am—I wish I wasn’t…_

“I—thank you, James. I’m sure it won’t turn into anything serious,” he said, wanting to believe it. His friend didn’t seem to believe it either, but thankfully participated in Lupin’s self-deception.

“I wasn’t there for the whole thing, of course, but Steffie says that Mia gave that bint Cassia hell,” Potter said with a twisted smile. He flopped down on his bed without any regard for the parchment he’d tossed there when he’d come in earlier, his grin growing wider. “Apparently it was a regular old catfight!”

“It was sweet of her to stick up for me,” Remus said quietly. James sat up.

“Do you think you ought to tell her? I mean… not as though she’s going about mucking up your secret identity or anything—“ Prongs had started backpedaling even before he’d had a chance to respond.

“Actually, I handed her a book on werewolves in the library the other day,” Lupin dropped casually. James, who’d rested his feet up above his head precariously against his bed pole, nearly fell off in surprise.

“You don’t think she knows, and said that because of—“

“No.”

“She’s a smart girl, I would be surprised if that hadn’t been enough for her to figure it out,” Potter pointed out. Remus shook his head.

“I think she was too distracted to put it together,” he said, somewhat enigmatically. He’d only shared his theory about a possible werewolf in Hermione’s family with Sirius so far, and though it was just a theory, he felt a bit like he was telling secrets about her. It was too late to back out now, however—James was wearing _that_ look—the one that meant he wouldn’t give up until he was sure he’d gotten everything you had to keep from him out of you. As if to confirm all of these inner conclusions, his friend spoke up, his face adorned with curiosity.

“Well?” The single word spoke volumes. Remus sat up.

“I think she’s got a family member who’s been bitten,” he said, wincing as a female voice outside hollered for someone named Prynne. Immediately, James got up and headed for the window. “It’s already closed, mate.” Lupin made a face and pulled his wretched hat farther down on his head. “Anyway, everything seems to fit—it would explain why she is suddenly allowed to come to school after years of living as a Muggle, and it would explain why her first reaction when I handed it to her was ‘I haven’t read this one yet.’”

“Handed wha—oh, right. The book. You might be onto something there,” James said, nodding. “It would also explain why she knows so much about magic in her first year here. No one would _willingly_ read all of those old dusty things for ‘personal enrichment.’” The other boy shook his head in disbelief. Personally, Remus wasn’t so sure, but he didn’t feel like debating the point, especially not now, as he heard the first indications that someone was heading up the tower dormitory’s stairs.

“Would you go and thank Sirius for sending me something actually edible this time, James?” Remus asked in a low voice, knowing his friend couldn’t hear that someone was approaching.

“Of course.” The black-haired boy impishly squeezed Lupin’s foot as he made his way to the door. About a minute later, the werewolf heard him mutter, “You’re _not_ clever, Moony,” and knew James must have passed Hermione on the stairs.

=====

Ever since the horrible scene with that yellow-haired witch (Hermione felt a wonderful sort of satisfaction about the fact that the pureblood girl had no idea what an insult ‘witch’ could be in Muggle culture) she’d felt horrible, but it wasn’t until halfway through Transfiguration that she realized the full implications of the last thing she’d said. The class was incredibly subdued, thanks to a severe warning by Professor McGonagall about disturbances in the corridors. She was fairly certain that this was the reason why Sirius hadn’t been up to his usual tricks of trying to get her attention in class, but she’d seen both he and James among the students as they dispersed that morning. Hermione was sure they hadn’t three hours’ worth of classes to understand why what she’d impulsively blurted out was dangerous, but what could they say to her? She wasn’t even supposed to know.

She’d skipped lunch.

 _Don’t you think Remus has a good_ reason _to be sick all the time? …sick all the time?_ The words echoed in her head like a heartbeat, pounding away at her conscience. To make herself feel better, Hermione had tried to think of other times when she’d had to keep a secret, and whether she’d done all right. This had distracted her throughout lunch and most of Arithmancy—the Polyjuice potion, her Time Turner, helping Harry against the rules of the Tri-Wizard Tournament (though, she decided that didn’t count because nearly _everyone_ including the fake Moody had been helping the champions), and then there was the DA. She’d nearly managed to cheer herself up until she remembered one of the most important secrets she’d ever had to keep—Sirius’ existence at Grimmauld Place.

It was then that she decided she had to talk to Remus. Maybe it wasn’t the most judicious decision for _this_ time period, but her friend and future professor would have enough on his future’s plate without having to wonder about whether or not she’d deliberately tried to out him in his final year at Hogwarts.

The door was open when she reached the top of the stairs, but she knocked anyway—or, rather, brushed her fingertips against the door. She’d tried out an Amplifying Aural charm before, and imagined that werewolf senses were likely to cause the same amount of pain to even such limited stimuli as a fist on wood.

“Good evening,” he said, startling her a bit. He’d sounded very much like his adult self just then.

“Hello,” she said, awkwardly. _What now?_ she thought to herself desperately. _‘Hello, and I am ever so sorry that I just about told the entire school you’re a werewolf… and by the way, you make an_ excellent _DADA professor!’_ There was a long silence, during which her mind concocted stranger and wilder things to say to him as she simply stood there and said nothing. Finally, Remus broke the strained hush.

“You look almost as miserable as I feel, are you all right?” his voice was incredibly gentle, and at that moment, she felt he was probably right. She _was_ miserable. How to explain why, though? Hermione moved closer to his bed, wishing she could cry but knowing there couldn’t be a way to explain the tears to his satisfaction.

“Oh, Remus,” she said with a catch in her voice. At that moment she wanted nothing more than to tell him everything, to pour out all of the horrible details and to hell with the consequences, but she wouldn’t let herself. Besides, this revelation was enough… “That book you gave me, in the library…” Hermione deliberately let her voice trail off, hoping he’d pick up where she left off.

“The one about werewolves,” he said. If she hadn’t have known him as well as she did, she wouldn’t have caught the tiniest hint of amusement in his voice. _Damn him and his heightened senses,_ she thought to herself crossly, which thought almost had her laughing, thinking about the many times their other friends must have grumbled about the very same thing. She decided that he wasn’t the only one allowed to be coy.

“James is right—you _aren’t_ clever.” She narrowed her eyes at him.

“All right,” he acceded. “What do you want to know?”

“What will you tell me?” she parried.

“Should we be exchanging owls?” He was good at this.

“Maybe. Would it do me any good?”

“Probably not.”

She glared at him.

“All right—let me ask _you_ a question: Who do you know that has been bitten?”

This was completely unexpected. Remus thought she knew someone (someone other than him, obviously) that had been turned? She looked at him, and saw that even with the seriousness of his last question, the mischievous twinkle in his eyes hadn’t faded. As she was observing this, the bag of books she had forgotten she’d been holding in her hand finally got too heavy for her, and dropped to the floor with a thud. Remus winced. This reminded her of her first thought upon entering the room, and then something dawned on her. He was asking her this deliberately, _now_ , because he could sense her emotional responses to his questions. _Well,_ she huffed inwardly, _just because he can sense them didn’t mean he knows the context._

“Someone I care very much for,” she said slowly, hoping her body language or tone of voice wasn’t screaming ‘IT’S YOU!’

“Is that why you came to Hogwarts?” he asked now, completely baffling her. “No, clearly not,” Remus answered himself before she could reply. He looked at her pensively, and evening’s first shadows cast through the nearby window fell on his face in just the right combination to age it twenty years or so. Hermione couldn’t help a little gasp of recognition, and it didn’t escape notice. “You can’t tell me it took you that long,” he said, almost resignedly.

He was either giving her an ‘out,’ or had misinterpreted her reactions somehow. Either way, it was a graceful way out of an awkward situation, and Hermione took it—though she wasn’t going to let him insult her powers of perception.

“I’m sure every woman that comes up to visit you when you’re ill avoids knocking so she won’t hurt your ears,” she said playfully. Hermione was rewarded with a few seconds of genuine surprise before she heard someone else’s footsteps on the stairs.

“Every single one,” Remus recovered quickly.

“Especially the ones who shouldn’t be there,” added a voice from the doorway. It was Professor Dumbledore. Hermione blushed crimson, knowing that the headmaster wasn’t implying anything untoward, but she was embarrassed nonetheless. The great wizard wasn’t to be outdone by his own students, however. “That isn’t a very flattering shade for you, Hermia,” he nodded at her face, winking conspiratorially at Lupin. 

“I…I’ll try to remember that, sir,” Hermione said, feeling completely out of her depth and more than a little impressed at how artfully the older man had dismissed her presence in the boy’s dormitory.

“Will you take a walk with me, Remus? Poppy is indisposed this evening,” Dumbledore said, moving to stand beside Lupin’s bed. It took every ounce of Hermione’s self-discipline to avoid even the thought of getting emotional at that moment, for she knew exactly what the headmaster was doing. It was incredibly touching to actually _see_ something that the werewolf himself had described to her. The act of recounting those memories had changed his voice a little hoarse, at the time—she had remembered that, even with all that had been going on that night. She told herself she’d go and have a good cry sometime that evening; it would serve to distract her from the fact that her boyfriend, this brave young man, and two of her other friends were going to—

“Do either of you have any idea,” Dumbledore’s voice interrupted her swiftly escalating thoughts (which was probably a good thing, she realized), his mild tone hiding an undercurrent of amusement; “—why young Mr. Black might have been found sniffing about near Mr. Filch’s quarters around dinnertime tonight?” Hermione just shook her head, but Remus’ eyes grew very wide for a moment before he schooled his features to mere concern. It interested her even more to notice that the headmaster was studiously _not_ looking in the young man’s direction.

“I have no idea,” Lupin lied, making Hermione even more curious.

“Well,” the older man said regretfully, “I don’t know either, but I hope for his sake that it was worth spending the night in the stables.” Remus coughed loudly, hanging on to the bedpost and leaning over as he did so, probably to hide his face. Hermione tried valiantly not to laugh, assuming that she would be giving too much away to Remus if she did so—but then she realized that the thought of Sirius having to spend a night in the stables as a detention was amusing enough, whether or not it was during the full moon. 

She was still giggling as the three of them moved toward the staircase, and her amusement mixed with Lupin’s was so infectious that soon Albus himself had joined in. They laughed their way down the stairs and into the Gryffindor common room, their mirth only increased by the startled looks of the students who were studying there.


	43. Members of the Order of the Phoenix

  
“I postpone death by living, by suffering, by error, by risking, by giving, by losing.” – _Anais Nin_

 

Sirius Black glared angrily at the many stalls that lined each side of the long, narrow stable in which he stood. The fact that he knew they were populated by strange, mystical creatures he couldn’t _see_ made him all the more wary. Filch had basically walked him over to the place, shoved him inside, and magically disappeared the door—expecting, no doubt, that without a wand Sirius would have no possible means of escape. _Well, I may have to spend the night outside the castle,_ Black thought to himself, _but I’ll be damned if I’m going to spend it in here._ The irascible old caretaker was probably watching the place like a hawk for the moment, however, and Sirius had no intention of outing himself as an animagus simply to avoid a single detention, no matter how dirty or disgusting it was.

The Thestrels hadn’t done anything to him, invisible or not, so the first thing Sirius did was go about his assigned task of feeding them. He had a few hours before sunset and freedom anyway.

He caught himself starting to chuckle… the look on old Filch’s face when the man had caught him inside his office was very nearly worth this assigned detention. Of course, it would be worth a week’s worth of them if his plan had worked. Sirius had barely gotten the cork back in the vial of potion when he’d been discovered, but the old man couldn’t have imagined that a student would be in there to meddle with his _cat_ , and not his desk. The few drops of the black fluid that remained in the bottle had been confiscated, of course (and the picture of Filch possibly tasting the potion to discover what its origins were had the young man laughing so hard he could hear the beasts moving restlessly in their stalls at the noise), along with a perfectly ordinary quill and a slightly less ordinary ball of black fur. He couldn’t very well have asked for the latter back without explaining its significance, but Sirius did feel a sense of loss at the idea of his hair languishing in the musty corner of a drawer instead.

The grouchy old man had been convinced that he’d skip out of detention unless it was begun _immediately_ , and it had been mere chance that James had come by right as Filch had started to lead him away. Sirius had barely gotten out the words ‘Be sure to feed Moony’ before he’d gotten a sharp rap on his head and a shove towards the staircase. It was only Prongs’ wink that prevented him from loudly complaining the entire way for his own gratification and to annoy the older man, who’d complained more than once that Sirius and James were prime examples of what happened to students when the headmaster prohibited whipping. In the end, all he’d had ended up saying was ‘I don’t _want_ to go to the stables!’ in a loud whining tone, thereby letting his friend know exactly where to find him, come nightfall.

The animal nearest him let out an otherworldly sort of sound, and it took him off guard to such an extent that nearly all of his hairs were standing on end. He felt so much like Padfoot just then, expecting to feel the slightly splintered wood underneath his paws and the prickling feeling of being on edge with bared teeth and raised hackles. _It’s a bit too early yet_ , he told himself. _Be patient._

 

Sirius had only just completed a makeshift cot to lounge on comprised of loose straw and his school robes when he heard a scratching, scrabbling sound at the nearest window. This sound got nearer and louder until something cold touched his hand. Even though he knew who it had to be, the unexpected feel of a rat’s moist nose made him twitch violently and let out a bellow of surprise.

When his pulse finally returned to normal, he heard the sound of hysterical laughter on both sides of the stable wall.

“I’m sure you’re very proud of yourself,” Sirius gasped out, rubbing his tainted hand furiously on his pant leg.

“Very,” Peter said, grinning.

“Have you got a wand somewhere in there? I feel the need for a good _Scourgify_.”

“I could always—” James started to offer from the other side of the wall.

“No thanks, I rather like having four paws,” Sirius demurred.

“Speaking of which,” Peter said, withdrawing an object from his robes that turned out to be Sirius’ wand.

“Where in Merlin’s name did you get that?” Sirius was incredulous. “Last I saw, it was setting up permanent residence in one of Filch’s dirty old drawers. Oh, _stuff it_ , Prongs,” he added, as the black-haired scamp had begun laughing even louder at the mention of Filch’s drawers.

“Our beloved caretaker is busy chasing after his cat, which appears to be indisposed at the current time,” Peter told him officiously. “She was last seen caterwauling at the Guardian Statue.”

“Well, that answers _that_ question,” Sirius mused. At his friend’s quizzical look, he added, “I’ll explain later. We’ve got an escape to pull off.”

=====

The small roll of parchment was sitting innocuously behind her, but Minerva could practically _feel_ its presence there. Albus probably had no idea that she hadn’t filed Hermia— _Hermione’s_ report in a secure place, but every student in Hogwarts knew it was worth more than their personal safety to break into her office. _Besides_ , she snorted to herself self-deprecatingly, _they all think I’m so boring and stuck-up that there wouldn’t be any reason to try it._

It was just before sunset on a Wednesday—and all of her marking was done, all practice objects transfigured back to their original forms, even her lesson plans for the next four weeks were prepared and sorted into their respective class times. This was a fairly odd occurrence on a Wednesday, given that she held almost all of her NEWT classes on Tuesdays and Thursdays, but even the extra work and preparation for these had been completed hours earlier.

It seemed that she had a few hours of genuinely free time.

McGonagall suspected that the real reason she’d subconsciously rushed to finish all of her school related chores was because she was anxious to re-examine the papers behind her. She’d told herself—well, she’d told Albus Dumbledore, as well—that of _course_ she couldn’t work on the girl’s theory; it was the earnest young woman’s own work, after all, not Minerva’s, and besides that there was the time line to consider.   
It struck her, then, how much more potential for changing things the introduction of an entirely new person to the timeline had than research and study done in a limited way for a limited purpose. Surely Dumbledore, as wise as she knew him to be, was aware of that—and yet he’d allowed it to happen anyway. Did he know something she did not? 

After a long period of reflection, the deputy headmistress pushed back her chair and stood up, having coming to a few rather drastic conclusions. She hurriedly bundled the precious papers into a tight roll, and with a determined set to her shoulders, set off for the headmaster’s office.

=====

Hermione had come to the courtyard in order to have some time to herself, to allow her emotions some chance at a release, but she found after she’d arrived there that the sunset and the laughter she’d shared with the headmaster and Remus had cleansed her all need of one. She was surprised—the wave of feeling that had come over her on seeing Dumbledore’s obvious caring for Lupin had felt so _strong_ , but with a little distance from the event, it no longer had the power over her it had earlier. Hermione knew for a fact that, had she had that experience even a month ago, she’d have been a tearful mess right now.

 _We endure,_ her father had once told her—though at the time, his words had been to comfort her after the death of his own mother. _We endure, because we have to. We humans can get used to anything, no matter how horrible—because we’re designed to –survive–_. He’d always been the fanciful one, the spinner of wild and wondrous tales to help get her to sleep, and so his words had held a strong meaning for her at the time. He hadn’t told her ‘it’ll all be okay,’ nor had he claimed to know whether either of them would see her Grandmother again—he’d taught her instead that she wouldn’t be a terrible person if in a few weeks’ time, she wasn’t still crying herself to sleep over her loss.

Now, stuck in what would have otherwise have been an untenable situation, her father’s words came back to comfort her again. There wasn’t any purpose to crying herself to sleep, not when there were friends to make and joy to feel, no matter how short the time spent here would be. It had been comparatively easy for Hermione to avoid thoughts of her parents so far, having had such a regular attendance at boarding school for so many years running. Now, with the gentle words of her father echoing in her mind’s ear, she sent out a silent thank you to wherever he was (she knew that 1977 was the year her parents met, while in dental school, but it distressed her to realize that she’d forgotten which dormitories they each lived in, this year) at that moment, letting out a long sigh as she felt all of her tensions draining away with the last of the sun’s light.

“It’s only a sunset,” a dry voice behind her said quietly. Hermione didn’t turn around.

“Allow me to complete your cliché retort,” she said, unconsciously standing a bit straighter and folding her arms tightly against her body. “’There’s a new one every night,’” she mimicked, altering her voice a few pitches lower and adding a healthy amount of sarcasm. He was silent, but Hermione didn’t expect for one moment that he’d been in any way fazed by her implied insult to his ascetic sensibilities. He was probably waiting for her to say something first so he could remark on her inability to stand a tense silence. After a long five minutes, during which Hermione alternated between ignoring him and wanting to look to see if he was still there, Snape finally spoke.

“The pond in the Forbidden Forest happens to have a rare herb that grows on its shore,” he said in a neutral tone that left no clue as to why he was telling her this. “A few times a year these plants release their pollen directly as the sun’s last light hits them.” 

Hermione turned, her curiosity finally getting the better of her—she wanted to see whether his facial expressions or body language could clue her in as to what his true purpose of telling this story was. Snape was simply staring out onto the grounds, though, his face as much of a mask as his tone of voice.

“The pollen glows,” he continued without acknowledging her change in posture. “The changes of heat and moisture in the air cause the glittering particles to float in swirling patterns across the water until the sun passes behind the distant hill.” Snape looked at her, then. “ _That_ is a sunset, Hermia.”

She could only remember one other time when he’d used her name—by the lake, that emotional night when she’d hexed herself silent. His using her name in a more casual way was disconcerting; Hermione wasn’t sure how often she’d heard this man refer to most anyone by their given names. She caught a slight up-turn to his lips, rightly interpreting it as a self-congratulation that he’d managed to unnerve her. 

“That sounds beautiful,” she said, biting back a stinging response in favor of rewarding the story for what it was. “I don’t suppose you’ll tell me when such a thing happens, however,” she added, turning her back on the soon-to-rise moon.

“—and give you information that would earn me detention? I think not,” Snape retorted, not unkindly.

“Yes, that’s all we Gryffindors exist for—to annoy and tattle on the Slytherins!” Hermione couldn’t resist that one.

“It’s more likely that Gryffindors exist to champion the cause of anything that _moves_ ,” he shot back. When Hermione raised her eyebrow at him, he added, as if just for her, “—except Slytherins, of course.”

“No, only the hardcore Gryffindors do that,” she answered him, casting a look of regret at the previously restful courtyard and starting for the exit.

“Probably a good idea,” Snape said, nodding towards the castle. “Not a good night to spend outdoors.” His voice held a strong note of distaste to it, alerting her curiosity until with a pang of dread she remembered why.

He knew about Remus.

That meant he knew exactly what the importance of her foolish words thrown at Cassia had held. She shuddered to think of what his opinion of her had been at that moment, forgetting that Snape had no motive besides a probable threat by Dumbledore to keep that secret to himself. Hermione forced herself to meet his eyes, to see the derision and censure that had to be there. It was, along with some disappointment, something she recognized all too well from his years as a teacher. She was torn—she wanted to be his friend, to give him the benefit of someone to talk to in the far future. At the same time, she had a healthy dose of pride, and losing face with one’s peers was bad enough, much less someone who had a position of authority in your normal life. Would he ever be able to trust her now?

“Everyone makes mistakes,” she shrugged, a nod to the fact that the situation was out of her control rather than an indication that she didn’t care. Hermione turned and walked away, hoping he would recognize that she had conceded the point on her own terms and respect her for that, if nothing else.

=====

By the time she heard Albus Dumbledore’s steps on the curving stone stairway that led to his office, Minerva McGonagall had concocted and rejected at least five rather convincing arguments for using Hermione’s paper, and was now forcing herself to wait patiently on the monstrosity he called a chair that sat in front of his desk. The quiet sigh he released on reaching the top of the stairwell and seeing that he had a visitor did nothing for her confidence, but Minerva had a great well of that to draw on.

“I was wondering if I could have a word with you,” she began, speaking in a strong voice that implied that he didn’t have much choice in the matter.

“I suspected as much,” he said, mildly.

“It’s just that—there’s going to be a war, Albus. I really think things are headed that way, and… I don’t intend to lose it—”

“Nor do I,” he interrupted gently.

“—and if we’re going to fight what has been going on, we’ve got to do it with everything and everybody we can! I’ve accepted that our students have too much to lose to join the Order so young, but surely that doesn’t mean that we should turn our backs on their ideas, their research?” It was a stretch, but she felt passionately about this, and not just because she was itching to delve into the unique theories that this girl from their future had come up with. Miss Granger hadn’t said anything outright, but Minerva could tell that the young girl was holding something back, something that had made a very great impact on her life. If there was something coming, some terrible event that would shape the lives of everyone and anyone involved, even years into the future, she wanted to be ready for it, and _damn_ the consequences.

“That’s an oversimplification, and you know it,” Dumbledore said, though his voice was free of any sort of accusatory tone. He simply sounded weary.

“There’s something to be said for a little simplicity, now and then,” she said, feeling more than a little guilty for pushing where she knew he was vulnerable. Though he was the undisputed leader of the Order of the Phoenix, he often spoke with her in private about the events that were escalating in their small community, and in this, their relationship was very much that of peers. It was very rarely that she pressed him in such a way.  
“If we win by—”

“You don’t think _he_ will break the rules? Initiating students, enslaving Muggles…” Minerva trailed off, her pulse racing and her color high. The reports of student Death Eaters had been among the most distressing in the long line of reports garnered from the Order members in the business of intelligence gathering.

“All very upsetting,” Albus said calmly, a strong note of steel to his voice that she recognized as repressed anger. “’Breaking the rules’ wasn’t exactly what I had in mind for that sentence, however. Tom has always been the type to manipulate and connive, and it has worked for him so far.” The wizard leaned forward on his desk, looking at her earnestly. “I was more worried about integrity. I _know_ you, Minerva. You have the most moral mind of anyone I’ve ever known. Would you be able to stomach such an ethical grey area?”

“If _he_ can—” she began, but her friend and colleague sat up promptly and gestured in a vague way toward one of his windows, clearly agitated.

“The instant that we begin comparing ourselves to that man is the instant his power becomes _more_ than that of a mere magician with cunning and deceptive tricks!” The deep regret mixed with anger in his voice was compelling, reminding her just how much he blamed himself personally for the path that Tom Marvolo Riddle had embarked on. 

“I’m not sacrificing my peace of mind for anyone, Albus,” she stated firmly. “I am _not_ , however, going to turn my back on an advantage like this without one hell of a good fight.” She’d finally said it, laid it out on the table for him. Minerva told herself she was capable of changing her mind, if persuaded, but only if she had an equal chance to persuade.

“Tell me,” he said, catching her eyes with his and holding them almost by sheer force of will. “What is it about this that cannot wait until its own time?” She must have made a face that mirrored her own thoughts, because he added, quickly, “I _did_ read it—I want to know what _you_ think.”

“Because it is going to take work,” McGonagall began, simply. “She suggests that part of what makes up the Patronus Charm comes from Transfiguration—that we transfigure our happy thoughts into something tangible, and the incantation brings it to life and gives it purpose. She goes on to ask whether this might also apply in some manner in casting Unforgivables like Crucio and Avada.” 

“Thus explaining why the curses themselves don’t work without the added thrust of the caster’s desire for another’s pain, or their death,” he said, a thoughtful expression on his face.

“Exactly,” Minerva nodded. “The question is whether it’s possible to explore the effects of other strong emotions, such as love—or protectiveness,” she added for his benefit, remembering that he’d admonished her several times over the years for fighting a little too hard for her Gryffindors.

“—which will, naturally, take quite a bit of time and experimenting to accomplish,” he finished for her. “But, why you, Minerva? What makes you so certain this is your role to play, rather than Hermione’s?”

“That’s just it—I can’t really say with any certainty,” she admitted. “All I can tell you is that I can see something in her that tells me she’s spent her time in the magical world doing more than schoolwork.” McGonagall crossed her hand over her eyes for a long moment, not wanting to say it, but knowing that she had to. “What if it’s not through, twenty years from now? I’m certain that if we asked her right now if she knew what the Order of the Phoenix was, she’d know, Albus. And not because it’s some sort of political party in the future.”

“Shades of—“ Dumbledore frowned deeply. “I certainly hope not.” He shook his head as if to clear it of all such thoughts, and spoke again. “She’s a Muggle-born, though. Doesn’t that tell you something about the political climate of the future? The way she behaved— _has_ behaved towards the Slytherins?” The man always did like to play devil’s advocate, she reminded herself.

“She’s a Gryffindor,” Minerva said proudly.

Dumbledore stood up, walking over to the window he’d gestured towards so forcibly earlier in their conversation, his mood turning tangibly more sober.

“There’s a Muggle saying,” he said, turning his head in her direction as he spoke. “’Absolute power corrupts absolutely.’”

“You’ve seen that before,” she agreed, remembering his victory against Grindelwald and the toll it had taken on him. There had been those in the Ministry who had thought he’d gone senile for wanting to remain the headmaster of Hogwarts, rather than some other, more exalted title.

“I can speak to my own memories, Minerva.” he spoke again almost absently, glancing at the quiescent Pensive near his desk before facing the window again. These words shook her, almost physically. She’d always known he was a very powerful wizard, capable of many things—including wandless magic—that most witches and wizards found completely beyond their grasp. Yet, this… this was more significant than anything she’d ever seen or heard about Dumbledore. McGonagall was still processing his revelation when he continued. “I have a unique perspective on the concept of power, you see, particularly as it relates to time itself.”

“Albus…” she paused, still slightly dazed.

He turned to face her again, his eyes glittering with an odd sort of energy. “Only once have I received a warning about a future event, and that was to tell me of Miss Granger’s imminent appearance in my office.”

“So…” she began, struggling to understand what his material point was in telling her all of this. “You are telling me that there is no point at which it is appropriate to use this kind of knowledge to our advantage, simply because of where it came from? No matter what our opponent chooses as his own brand of principles?” His newest response shocked her almost as much as his previous one had.

“No.”

“But you just said—”

“Minerva, my dear friend,” Albus came over and clasped her hands between his own calloused ones. “I’m telling you that I don’t have the luxury of that choice. A message given via a Pensieve is an absolute, no matter how clever the language used in relaying it. Research is far more passive.”

“The minister is right—you _are_ daft,” she murmured, partly to tease him as she sometimes did, and partly as a subtle questioning of his meaning.

“I’d rather be underestimated, wouldn’t you?” Dumbledore released her hands with a gentle pat and made his way back to his desk again. He seemed to know that she was still staring at him, even with his back turned to her. “Professor, I don’t have to tell you that you’re a strong-willed witch. You’ve proven that to all of us on many occasions.” His eyes twinkled as he turned to her. “I too want to prevail.”


	44. A Bold Beginning

  
“Destiny is a name often given in retrospect to choices that had dramatic consequences.”   
–J. K. Rowling

 

Peter was the first to wake up that Saturday. Deciding that he wanted to prolong his privacy for a few hours, he dressed quickly and quietly and exited the Gryffindor tower before the hour turned six. The air outside felt brisk and chilly, but his light coat and house scarf withstood the stiff wind admirably, and he welcomed the subtle change in temperature. He liked change; the steady movement of time took him farther away from things that he disliked, and toward what he viewed as a new beginning. 

It wasn’t that he was ungrateful for his education, but Peter didn’t like the system of house separation at Hogwarts. He knew he was too shy at times—though the Hat’s suggestion of Gryffindor had been incredibly validating in that regard. The thing that bothered him the most about it was the idea of having pre-made enemies, simply based on being placed in one rather than another of the four houses. He’d expected Hufflepuff, not that he thought of himself as much of a social person, of course, but the students’ talk on the train had just about convinced him that someone like him (who hadn’t shown much in the way of academic promise or bravery by the tender age of eleven) would certainly be shuffled off to Helga’s house. He’d learned that this conclusion about the badgers was misguided, as had most of his fellow students. 

Ironically, even though he’d made such strong and lasting friendships in his first few years, he’d begun to wish he had ended up in Hufflepuff. Perhaps then he wouldn’t feel such a pressure to prove that he _had_ courage, possessing of a lion’s heart—of course, this had only reminded him that Gryffindor really was the place for him. Most of the ‘Puffs he knew didn’t feel that sort of requirement; it seemed more of a Gryffindor trait.

Far from being comforting, this train of thought caused him to frown in frustration as he picked his way across the grass in a rambling path around the campus. Not for the first time, Wormtail wondered if he was imagining some kind of personal inferiority or if his friends truly thought less of him than they did of each other. Their joking attitude of ‘tough love’ was not only pervasive, but also unpredictable. It was a stressful sort of existence, though rewarding in its own way. No matter how down on himself he got, the thought of his accomplishment in fifth year invariably cheered him.

Being a rat felt at once terrifyingly vulnerable and powerfully safe. Sirius had sat him down at the beginning of the process, expressing genuine concern at his choice—but Peter had never wavered. What Sirius and James didn’t understand was the security of being common; they were so anxious to stand out and be noticed that the thought of choosing a form that was slightly distasteful as well as abundant in number had clearly been mystifying to them. A stag could never blend into the background, after all—but nor could it be preyed on by as many creatures as rats were, something he’d foolishly proven earlier that week.

His leg had mostly healed, though it had been incredibly itchy as it did so. Wounds as translated between physical forms were apparently more painful and much more delicate during the healing process than injuries sustained as a human. What ached more than his leg or even his wounded pride, however, was the discovery he’d made the night of the full moon—Sirius had apparently engaged in some sort of revenge on Mrs. Norris, but he hadn’t felt it necessary to let any of the rest of them know about it. Having one’s friend take care of your enemies for you felt great, to be sure, but Peter was hurt that Sirius hadn’t deemed it important enough to let him in on the joke. It made the gesture feel less like a friend defending another friend, and more like an excuse for mischief. When he was being honest with himself about it, he felt a little used; not even the sight of a rattled Severus Snape approaching the Great Hall only to turn away after spying Mrs. Norris at the doorway had made him feel better.

The obvious cat hair on the other boy’s robes had prompted a stifled laugh, however. Picturing how it had gotten there—now _that_ had been worth a sackful of galleons.

He figured he should probably talk to Sirius about the whole thing if it were bugging him this much, but at the same time, he knew he wouldn’t. He never did. It was just the routine, the casualty of friendship. Wormtail took a brief moment to wonder why it didn’t feel odd to him that he felt safer running around beneath the much larger bodies of his fellow animagi, safer than he felt at the thought of asking any of them for help with Transfiguration homework.

Peter never told his friends how much more clever he felt as a rat. He was certain that none of them were capable of understanding, having chosen forms that reflected their willingness to fight—or not having chosen at all. Yet, could a dog open a latch? It was possible, he supposed—with a lot of work and probable damage to its muzzle. Could a stag hide in an open field? Not likely, Peter thought. He tended to console himself with these sorts of musings, and lately, with the odd statement that Lucius had made to him before the Pureblood had left the library—‘ _Slytherins aren’t the only ones with ambition._ ’ He hadn’t quite worked out yet what the benefit for Malfoy would be to say something like that to a Gryffindor. The thing was, he did want to amount to something. He wanted to be remembered…and not just for being an illegal animagus.

Thinking about Lucius brought his mind to thoughts of another Slytherin seventh year. For one shining moment, he wondered if Malfoy’s words had been prompted by another student, if maybe she…but no. Lucius looked out for Lucius, and no one else. Still, if someone as prejudiced as Malfoy could tell a Gryffindor to have ambition, perhaps there was a chance that other Slytherin students might have cause to look favorably on a Gryffindor with initiative.

The sun rose behind him through the trees of the Forbidden Forest as Peter Pettigrew contemplated bravery, ambition, and a certain shy Slytherin girl.

=====

Hermione Granger woke to the pleasant sound of humming, finding to her surprise that it was coming from the next bed over—Juli Warbeck. Nearly everyone in Gryffindor at one point or another had mentioned that while she was related to Celestina Warbeck, Juli herself adamantly denied having any musical talent at all. Hermione had even heard one sixth year student question the girl’s placement in Gryffindor, but she had learned in her first year not to judge a book by its cover. Neville Longbottom might have been every bit as shy as Juli, but he was also every bit as Gryffindor as his female predecessor. Juli _could_ sing, she just didn’t choose to be known for it, it seemed, just as Neville didn’t wear his bravery on his sleeve. Not for the first time since her arrival in the past did Hermione wonder where her fellow DA member’s parents were in this time period, and what their life was like before their son was born.

The thought of Frank and Alice Longbottom and their obvious love for each other reminded her that she had plans with Sirius for Hogsmeade today. Deciding to leave the devious Miss Warbeck to her secret, Hermione made a loud yawning noise to indicate that she was awake before getting out of bed to prepare for the day. It was only after she’d finished getting dressed and pulling her unruly hair back that she realized she hadn’t taken any special measures to dress up or look especially pretty. With Sirius, she simply didn’t feel like she needed to. Hermione thought about this as she walked slowly down the staircase from the girls’ dormitories, a bemused look on her face. While the reactions she’d gotten during fourth year’s Yule Ball had been very gratifying, the feeling that she was somehow on display as someone very different from Hermione Granger had been very uncomfortable.

She reached the bottom of the stairs and caught sight of Sirius, who was sitting as usual in the far corner of the common room. The expression on his face as he looked up and saw her was worth just as much to her as all of the admiring glances she had garnered as Viktor’s date for the Ball. She told herself that there couldn’t be anything in the world like being cared for as who you were every day, school robes or faded blue sweatshirt. As she approached their special corner, she saw that Sirius had picked up on her look of approval and—being Sirius—tried to capitalize on it.

“That’s a brilliant shirt, Mia,” he said glibly.

“It really isn’t,” she shook her head, adding quickly, “—but you get points for trying.”

“Points!” he said, wagging his eyebrows and smirking. “Dare I ask what I can redeem them for?”

“Put your foot in it, there,” Remus let her know, not even looking up from the paper in his lap.

“Good morning to you, too,” Hermione said, a little crossly.

“I live to serve,” the werewolf said, grinning.

“’…me breakfast?’” Sirius looked expectant. Remus, however, simply shook his head and turned a page of his _Daily Prophet_. “It was worth a try,” Sirius said to Hermione in a loud stage whisper.

“Did you want to get something to eat before we go?” she asked solicitously. “The great hall will probably be serving food in…” Hermione let her voice trail off as she pretended to be studying the magical clock above the portrait hole for a long minute. “ _Four hours_?” she continued, looking to Lupin for approval.

“Sounds about right,” he confirmed.

“You two aren’t clever,” Sirius said, sighing. He raised his hands as if to ward off any possible retorts, lowering one of them to reach for her in a silent plea to help lift him out of his lounging position on the couch. Hermione briefly considered pulling him up halfway only to let go, but decided he’d suffered enough for the time being.

“Off to Hogsmeade, I assume?” Remus asked with a gentle smile.

“’Insert snarky comment about Madame Puddifoot’s Here,’” Sirius said in an insolent voice, making bracket symbols with his fingers.

“Why, _Sirius_ ,” Lupin began, attempting to look wounded. “I would _never_ —”

“Save it, Moony,” Sirius said as Hermione giggled helplessly. “Oh, be a dear and tell James I’ve scheduled Gryffindor’s team for the Quidditch Pitch from 9-12?” he added, leading her by the hand toward the exit.

“Isn’t it already half-past—” the werewolf called out after them.

“Just tell him!” Black said, winking impishly before pulling the portrait closed behind him. Hermione tried for a few futile seconds to muster a look of disapproval, but soon gave it up as a lost cause.

“You know,” Hermione tried to adopt a serious tone that was marred by the smile in her voice, “I hardly _ever_ giggle.”

“Is that so?” 

She nodded, adding, “I tend to view giggling as a bit vapid.” Sirius slowed his pace such that she had to turn to face him. He tipped his head to the side, his grey eyes catching the light from a nearby window and causing her to repeat the word ‘vapid’ in her head a few times to clear it. “What?!” she finally said defensively, starting to feel a bit uncomfortable under his scrutiny.

“If you were vapid, you’d have started to giggle by now,” he said, firmly clasping her hand in his and walking rapidly toward the shifting staircases.

“You had to _check_?” she protested.

“Well,” Sirius said in a thoughtful voice, guiding her through the maze of moving staircases, “you _were_ in Slytherin…”

“Just like a Gryffindor to hold that against me,” she teased back. They moved towards the large doors that led to the courtyard, still holding hands. There were few students around; breakfast had been over for over an hour, and those that liked to sleep in on the weekends were still doing so. 

Hermione reached up impulsively to pull Sirius’ school scarf over his shaggy hair as they crossed the threshold into the cool autumn air. As she’d hoped, he turned to her and smiled, his entire face suffused with happiness in a way that she’d hardly ever seen during his exile in #12 Grimmauld Place. 

For a frightening moment, she wondered if she’d somehow spoken these thoughts aloud, for his face froze in the act of smiling at her and a steely, shuttered look replaced the happiness of only a few seconds before. At the same time, he began to squeeze their joined hands so tightly that she almost asked him what she’d done—but he was looking _past_ her, the set of his jaw telling her that whatever or whoever it was had made him very angry. As he’d done earlier, Sirius started to guide her with his hand in hers, the clear intent being the placement of her body behind his. His movements were rough, and she wanted to object until she finally looked in the direction her boyfriend was staring towards with such intensity.

A boy wearing a heavy black tailored coat and a Slytherin scarf was standing ten feet away from them, his facial features familiar to her, yet different…prouder, perhaps. He seemed very solitary, standing there stiffly in the autumn air with only his scarf as a companion.

“No point in hiding her from me, Sirius,” the young man said evenly. 

As soon as she heard the word ‘hiding,’ Hermione wrenched her hand out of Sirius’ and stepped forward from beside him, her anger having flared up at the idea that she had something to conceal from a member of his family.

“If you think I have any intention of _hiding_ from any—”

“What do you want, Regulus?” Sirius interrupted her in a voice so steady and calm that she was shocked speechless. She wanted nothing more than to look back at him, but the anger was still there, telling her that to turn away from the Slytherin-clad boy in front of her would be giving him some sort of advantage.

“I thought perhaps you’d grown taller since May,” the younger boy said almost wistfully, though there was a heavy overtone of irony and anger to his voice.

“You certainly haven’t,” Sirius said with dismissive cruelty. Hermione wondered if the enmity that was clear between the two young men was so strong that he was incapable of seeing what she saw—his brother clearly missed him greatly. To his credit, Regulus displayed absolutely no discernible reaction to his older brother’s insulting tone, and Hermione couldn’t tell if this bothered Sirius or not, not even after her boyfriend spoke again. “You can put in your letter that my height is no longer that woman’s concern,” he said, speaking the words with thinly veiled contempt.

“I’ve already written it,” Regulus said.

“Of course you have.”

“I’m not _reporting_ on you, Sirius,” his brother said, the first hints of anger and frustration appearing in his eyes and the set of his jaw. “That was never why I—”

“Of course not,” Sirius said sarcastically, adopting a sycophantic tone as he continued, “‘Dear Mum—Big Brother is the perfect Gryffindor! You’d be so proud. In other news, I won Slytherin 50 house points this month, and Sirius refuses to talk to me. I miss you—’”

“You’re the one who put your friends above your family!” Regulus said hotly, his face having gone pale with anger during Sirius’ diatribe.

“Strange how that same family didn’t completely turn its back on me until _you_ came to school,” Sirius said in a low voice, coming up to stand next to Hermione. She tried to make eye contact with his brother, tried to get him to watch her as she reached out for Sirius’ hand, but the two boys were focused on each other; a brief squeeze and continued hand to hand contact was her only response from Sirius.

“I love our mother,” Regulus stated with simple dignity, his demeanor starting to regain the aloofness that Hermione had noticed at first.

“You _would_ ,” Sirius replied.

“—Whereas _you_ would rather spend your time in the company of a—”

“Do not finish that sentence,” Sirius said softly, dangerously.

She could feel the tension in him; the way his hand trembled in hers spoke not of fear but of unimaginable fury. If she didn’t do something soon, he would release it to defend her against an insult that she no longer found insulting. She turned her back on Regulus, knowing instinctively that it would be braver to walk away than to allow the two brothers to hash out their separate feelings of betrayal on the stones of Hogwarts’ front steps.

“Let’s just go, Sirius,” she said, amazed at the cool, detached quality in her voice. “There are better ways to spend our time.”

“I’m not going to stand here and—”

“Let him call me a Mudblood?” she said, deliberately saying the word without pausing on it or emphasizing its significance in any way. She’d shocked him now, to say nothing of whatever reaction his brother may have had behind her. “It’s just a word,” she continued calmly, squeezing his hand in reassurance that she was serious. “Besides, if it means nothing to me, and it means nothing to you,” Hermione said earnestly, tilting her head in Regulus’ direction, “he’s the only one left to care.”

He didn’t want to listen to her, she could tell. Hermione couldn’t remember seeing him back down very often, if at all—and this situation was far more personal than a mock-insult thrown by James. She wasn’t going to beg him, however. After a long moment during which he never once broke eye contact with her to look at his sibling, Sirius let out a quick breath and the tension seemed to flow away as he pulled her to him and threw a casual arm around her.

“You can tell your mother that our precious blood purity is in _serious_ danger!” he shouted over his shoulder at Regulus as they walked away, Hermione’s sudden shyness at his words causing her to blush—though her steps never once faltered on the walk to Hogsmeade.


	45. Heart to Heart

  
Don’t be scared—I’m scared too  
But that’s the best part, the best part of love  
When it’s brand new  
- _Ready for your love, Chantal Kreviazuk_

 

Hermione had been silent as she and Sirius walked the path to Hogsmeade, focusing instead on keeping up with the brisk pace he’d set after his confrontation with Regulus. Something had told her that his decision to walk away rather than continue the argument had been a significant development; though the brief years that she’d known him had already begun to fade from her memory by her seventh year at Hogwarts, Hermione was certain that the Sirius she’d known then wouldn’t have been able to do it.

Now, as the two of them entered Hogsmeade proper, the importance of this conclusion and the realization that there really was only one altered variable between then and now—herself—caused a shiver to run through her entire body. Sirius hadn’t looked in her direction since they left the school, seeming to be deep in thought, but, feeling her involuntary shiver, he squeezed her hand and looked down at her just as she glanced up. 

“There are rather a lot of people here,” he said, managing a slight smile as they slowed their pace to look around at the excited smiles of their fellow students and townspeople milling around in Hogsmeade. Hermione simply nodded, a bit relieved to see that she wouldn’t have to come up with an alternate reason for looking uncomfortable. Sirius stopped, lifting his free hand to run it through his hair roughly as he contemplated their options.

“Come on,” he said finally, lightening the mood slightly by circling her with a bouncy few steps to grasp her other hand in his before leading her toward a path that wound behind the buildings. The two young people walked again in silence; Hermione wished she could broach the subject of the two brothers’ estrangement, but, knowing what a sensitive topic it was for Sirius, she said nothing. Sirius would talk to her about it if he wanted to, she knew—and besides, as she’d learned from Harry’s behavior in her own time, pressing her male friends for details always seemed to net the complete opposite result from the one she wanted. As Hermione found out shortly, however, she didn’t have long to wait.

=====

Sirius became increasingly restless as they walked further from Hogsmeade and the prying ears of strangers. Releasing Hermia’s hand, he discharged his pent-up emotions by kicking the newly fallen leaves that had drifted naturally into wind-blown piles strewn across their path. Damp leaves didn’t really provide any sort of catharsis, however; his anger simply built upon itself until finally he kicked viciously at a larger heap of leaves and the chunk of tree branch that they’d been hiding soared majestically into the air. By the time it landed, Sirius felt a little ashamed of himself. He glanced over at Hermia, but the look on her face didn’t show disgust, fear, or any of the other negative emotions he’d expected to see as a result of petulant display of temper. In fact, she seemed almost amused.

“Did it hurt?” she asked, doing an admirable job of sounding completely serious. The words themselves had a strange effect on him, however, and instead of answering her intended question, Sirius leaned against a nearby tree and frowned slightly. When at long last he spoke, it was in reference to far older injuries.

“It wasn’t supposed to,” he said, staring intently at the smudge of dirt the impact had left on his shoe. “We’d done a fair job of hiding it until I was sorted to Gryffindor.” Sirius shook his head, trying and failing to keep the bitterness from seeping into his tone of voice. “He saw that as the confirmation that I was the bad seed—not _good enough_ to be sorted into Slytherin.”

“But—” Hermia stopped, as though surprised by the sound of her own voice. “But, you had a choice, didn’t you?”

He looked up, blinking quickly at the shock of both her words and the brightness of the sun’s light glowing behind her in sharp contrast to the muddy forest floor. Sirius forgot the pain in his foot, forgot the immediacy of his confrontation with Regulus, even forgot the many times he’d told himself that his sorting was a secret he’d keep only for himself.

“How did you know?” he gasped out, his astonishment robbing his voice of most of its volume. Instantly, Hermia blushed, looking like she were about to stammer out an apology, but instead, she stepped closer to him, twisting her scarf in her hands.

“I’m—” she began to say, but stopped herself. “It’s supposed to be rare,” she said after a long moment. He wondered what she meant by ‘supposed to be,’ but nodded encouragement to her, wanting to know what she was going to say. She, clearly, had been given no choice—had she taken the time to ask other students about their experiences? Again, however, Hermia James surprised him.

“I don’t suppose your brother was offered a choice,” she said in a low voice, adding as an afterthought to lighten the mood a little, “James either, I’d wager.”

“Regulus?” Sirius responded to her supposition with a shake of his head. “The Sorting Hat crowed Slytherin so quickly you’d have thought it was cursed,” he said wryly. “I’ve never really talked about it…” he trailed off, having meant to transition to telling her one of James’ wild stories about the Hat, but her earnest expression and astute observation made him pause. “I don’t think it occurred to Reg that there would ever have _been_ a choice,” he said, his face blanching slightly at his unconscious use of his brother’s diminutive. Hermia stepped closer to him, took a deep breath, and spoke.

“Do you think it would have hurt him more to think that you _chose_ Gryffindor—or that you were so fundamentally different that you belonged somewhere else?”

“I don’t know,” he said, honestly. “I mean, I think he expected me to be a maverick Gryffindor, after he got over the shock of it. I’d always bent expectations—that I would fit well into our rival house was something he’d never planned for.”

=====

The fact that his phrase ‘our rival house’ referred to Gryffindor—meaning that, in some small way, Sirius still identified himself as a Black—was fascinating to her, but Hermione tried, instead, to focus on the conversation itself.

“Regulus was always so full of pride,” Sirius was saying now. “Every time he signs his name—ever since he first learned how to do it—he signed the ‘Black’ larger than anything else.” He leaned his head back against the tree stump and sighed; clearly Sirius was digging into memories he’d long since buried. “The concept of an identity of his own was too much for him,” he stated, harshly.

“You’re proud, too,” she pointed out, gently, earning herself a crooked grin that verged on impudence.

“Yes, but I don’t scrawl ‘GRYFFINDOR’ in huge letters with candy hearts all around my name,” Sirius said. She scowled at him.

“You know what I mean!”

“So do you,” he countered. He was right, she did know what he really meant… and trying to change Sirius’s irrepressible need to vocalize his vendettas wasn’t something she was prepared to do just yet. Hermione decided to change tactics.

“What was he like? Before you two were at school, I mean.”

“Under all of that self-importance, he actually hates seeing anything suffer,” Sirius said, letting out a long, deep breath that seemed to have been drawn from his toes. “That’s what made all of this so—” Sirius broke off; clearly this was treading into dangerous, private waters. “Well, for example, he used to give food to mother’s house elves when she punished them.”

While she was busy trying to let that sink in, Hermione could see Sirius straighten up and begin to walk again; the nervous energy accrued from talking about things he probably never even let himself _think_ about was obviously affecting him. When she hadn’t appeared at his side, rather than looking behind to see what she was doing, Sirius had merely thrust his empty hand out behind him and waited.

_How he manages to be so infuriating and endearing at the same time, I have no idea_ , Hermione thought to herself as she gathered her scattered thoughts and moved towards him. Deciding that he needed to be taken down a peg, Hermione walked up to his other side and purposefully began to walk in the direction he’d been heading. She could hear him chuckle under his breath as he started to follow her back towards Hogsmeade and their originally planned outing.

=====

As the two of them wove in and out of the various shops and sights of the wizarding town, Sirius asked Hermia about her childhood—whether she had siblings of her own, what she thought of the wizarding world, and what her other friends were like. He could tell that some of the memories that his inquiries had brought up were painful, but Hermia’s face glowed when she spoke of her friends at home, and of the pranks that she had tried to get them out of.

“So, what you’re really saying is—you miss them?” he said, taking her package of quills from her hands so she could examine a rare textbook at the bookshop.

“How would you feel if you…” Hermia’s voice trailed off as a wave of emotion crossed her face before she could even finish the thought. Sirius was fairly certain he knew what it was, however.

“Completely miserable, without James and Remus and Peter,” he finished for her. In reply, she hastily set down the book she’d been holding and hugged him fiercely for a long minute, long enough for his eyes to mist over slightly at the strength of the moment. 

“I didn’t mean to make you sad, Mia,” he murmured into her ear when, at length, she let go.

“I know,” she said, simply. “Well, do you think we have enough parcels?” she added in a much lighter tone. Sirius, for once, got the hint.

“Well, my arms haven’t started to ache, but I don’t remember that being a requirement,” he teased, holding up the substantial collection of bags from various stores. Suddenly, he remembered that he’d promised James that he’d pick up something from Zonko’s for their upcoming Halloween prank. “Actually, I still need to pick up something—can I meet you somewhere?”  
“Of course! But, are you sure I can’t just go with you?” she questioned.

“You _could_ , but then you’d probably feel obligated to report to Lily about our activities,” Sirius said regretfully.

“I see,” she said, narrowing her eyes.

“I’ll meet you in the Three Broomsticks, then?” Sirius grinned and set off before she could protest. He was still smiling broadly when he paid for his items at Zonko’s, so much so that the joke shop owner asked him if he’d been sampling the merchandise.

=====

When Hermione woke the next morning, the first thing she noticed was an odd feeling that there was something underneath her pillow. She soon discovered that there was—a square shaped package that turned out to be a stack of fresh parchment paper, a gift from Sirius. He’d written his name just as they’d joked about the day before, with garish gold and crimson hearts and charmed letters spelling out a flashy ‘GRYFFINDOR.’ Inside the folder that held the paper, however, he’d written a more serious note to her:

> _For my Muggle-born, so she can continue to take unnecessarily long notes in class,  
>  and perhaps write to her far-away friends.  
> _
> 
> Love, Sirius

His use of that particular phrase was especially touching, and she made sure to cast a preservation spell on the scrap of paper he’d written it on, fixing it securely onto a page of her diary.

Though she was sure she’d have thought of his message often enough anyway, Hermione found his words particularly important to her over the next few days, as she found that she noticed Sirius’s brother’s presence almost everywhere. Prior to the brothers’ encounter on Saturday, Hermione had completely forgotten he even existed—but now, she saw his haughty, aloof figure in the hallways, at mealtimes, and even once in the library. Each time, the students around Regulus seemed to unconsciously leave space for him, as though he had an invisible aura around his body that prevented anyone from getting too close. 

It was difficult for her not to associate his remoteness with what she now knew to be true about his character, and this prompted her to see Sirius’s words of affection as speaking indirectly to his brother’s prejudices. Hermione had been thinking about these associations on her way to breakfast on Thursday morning when she looked up and caught Regulus looking directly at her. His facial expression was unreadable, expressing neither disgust nor anger, something that Hermione found very interesting. He had nothing to hide from _her_ , she knew how he felt about her—but then, as she looked away, Hermione remembered her brief but instructive experience of being in Slytherin house. Regulus may not have felt the need to conceal his dislike from her, but it seemed to serve his purpose to keep his feelings hidden from his fellow students.

“Missing somebody?” James asked her when she finally sat down, nodding towards the far table. For an odd moment, Hermione thought of Severus, and shook her head at such a strange reaction.

“No,” she said, still shaking her head. “I’d make up an interesting reason to be staring over there, but I haven’t the energy,” she added, winking at the redhead sitting beside James. Then, Hermione noticed that someone was indeed missing from breakfast. 

Remus was usually one of the first ones awake, and nearly always the first person seated at the Gryffindor table for breakfast. Furthermore, she knew for a fact that he wasn’t absent because of the full moon, as that had occurred the week before.

“Come to think of it—where’s Remus?” Hermione said, her brows slightly furrowed in confusion.

“ _I’m_ just FINE, thank you,” Sirius said loudly, having come up beside her to sit down just as she’d spoken her concern.

“You’re always late, Sirius,” Lily pointed out.

“Glad to know that if I fall through the moving staircase some gloomy morning, no one will come looking for me,” he said in an injured voice as he settled into his seat beside Hermione.

“There’s always the ghosts,” Peter suggested.

“Honestly—no one is worried that Remus is late?” Hermione said, slightly vexed.

“He’s not late, he’s occupied,” Sirius answered her, yelping shortly afterward as though someone had kicked him. James, as usual, looked innocent and was very likely not.

“Ahh,” Hermione said, realization dawning. “Halloween.”

“Just so.” Sirius raised a jam-covered knife and waved it in James’s general direction before speaking again. “Don’t even think about doing that again—I’m armed, and you _hate_ mulberry jam.”

“It’s not like Hermia can’t figure things out on her own, you know,” James said, though he did lean back a bit in concession to Sirius’s threat.

“It didn’t occur to you two that I might not _care_ to know what rule-breaking and possibly dangerous prank the four of you have come up with?” Hermione said, reaching out calmly to take the gooey knife from her boyfriend’s hands for her own piece of bread.

“I love how you assume Lily’s got no part in all of this,” James said.

“So do I,” Lily agreed impudently. “It’s about time that someone realized that I have no control over your behavior!”

A quiet ‘humph!’ sound resonated from Sirius’s direction, but luckily for him, Miss Evans either hadn’t heard him or chose not to react. Before she could change her mind, the five of them heard the Headmaster’s voice calling all students to listen to an announcement.

“It has come to my attention that the majority of the older students have requested an additional Hogsmeade outing day in order to celebrate Halloween next Monday. While there is a precedent for this, I’ve gotten several owls from shop proprietors such as Zonko’s, informing me of the large increase in sales of… particular items over the past week.” Dumbledore paused, and Hermione sensed that the way he was studiously ignoring the Gryffindor table was a subtle message. 

“For that reason,” the old man at the podium boomed, “I have decided that further visits are not necessary.” The sounds of disappointment rang throughout the Great Hall, though the loudest came, inevitably, from the Gryffindor students. “In compensation for this, I have spoken to your Heads of House, and all have agreed to allow some sort of celebration in your common rooms.” The Headmaster’s face broke into a kindly smile at the reversal of groans to cheers. “Do not abuse their good will!” he cautioned before thanking them all for their attention.

“We would never do _that_ in our last year at Hogwarts, would we Sirius?” James said slyly, as Hermione and Lily shot each other worried (but amused) looks.

“Hmmm?” Sirius replied absently, clearly distracted.

“It’s times like these that I wish I wasn’t Head Girl,” Lily groaned.

=====

Remus stepped confidently away from the entrance to the Room of Requirement, not even looking behind him to watch the door melting back into the wall. He’d learned at a very young age that people were less suspicious of someone who appeared to have nothing to hide—indeed, this knowledge had saved him quite a lot of explaining over the years. He did feel a pang of conscience, as he always did, at the idea of using this tactic to conceal mischief, but as James had so earnestly explained to him the night before, the Last Halloween of Their Years At Hogwarts only happened once, after all.

The boys had lit on the idea of hiding their various bewitched items and other objects they planned on ‘celebrating’ Halloween with in the Room of Requirement shortly after Lily’s birthday party. It wasn’t this that Remus objected to, anyway—he had no intention of being caught with dungbombs disguised as pumpkins or enchanted Sneakoscopes anyway. As he neared the end of the hallway, he caught sight of his friends heading towards the Gryffindor Tower before classes.

“Remus! Fancy meeting YOU here,” James said in an overloud voice. Immediately, the two girls made faces and Lily pulled her companion towards the portrait hole.

“Come on,” she said, shooting a look behind her at him and cracking a slight smile. “That’s James’s cue that they’re about to talk about things we don’t want to know about. He thinks he’s clever by trying to drive me away with his antics, but it’s just easier to play along.”

Remus and Sirius both started laughing when James’s face fell at his girlfriend’s words.

“Don’t worry, Prongs—we wouldn’t have let on if it had been any of us,” Sirius said, nudging Peter.

“Thanks.” James sighed dramatically before switching gears swiftly and asking Remus how his ‘mission’ had gone. Lupin winced.

“Please don’t call it that, James—I”

“—have a reputation to protect. Got it,” Potter said, winking conspiratorially. “So you’re saying you’ve procured the contraband?” Lupin sighed inwardly. As much as he loved his friends, he sometimes wished they were less reckless. James Potter seemed to live to define ‘irrepressible.’

“Good news, Moony,” Sirius said, reaching out to muss up James’s hair and grinning at Remus as though to say ‘this will keep him busy for a while.’ “Dumbledore’s allowing us to have Halloween parties in the common rooms—apparently even McGonagall agreed to it!”

“Reluctantly, Mr. Black,” the severe-faced professor confirmed as she exited the portrait hole and walked toward them. “The Headmaster managed to convince me that, if the festivities were confined to each house’s private areas, the other students wouldn’t be able to witness whatever embarrassing and likely _illegal_ pranks you four are undoubtedly planning.”

“Why, _Professor McGonagall_!” James began with an affected gasp. “You don’t think WE—”

With a swift flick of the older woman’s wand and a softly spoken word, James’s scarf suddenly flew into Potter’s mouth, muffling whatever outraged pretence he was planning to express.

“You will keep an eye on your fellow students, won’t you, Mr. Lupin? You and Miss Evans?” their Head of House said as she turned to walk away from them. Remus could have sworn he saw her eyes twinkle when she looked back at him for his nodded reply. 

“Looks like your reputation is untarnished, Moony,” Sirius whispered to him, but Remus wasn’t so sure about that. Just as he wasn’t exactly as he seemed, he felt as though their estimable Transfiguration professor didn’t quite let on exactly how much she knew about the goings on at Gryffindor House. At any rate, it wasn’t until she was well out of earshot that Prongs’s scarf fell limp around his neck again and its victim was claiming that he was convinced their professor had placed a surveillance charm on it during his ‘attack.’ Remus shared an amused look with Peter and Sirius.

All was right in his world.


	46. Best Laid Plans

  
It’s these little things, they can pull you under  
Life your life with joy and thunder…  
Oh, oh… but sweetness follows.  
- _Sweetness Follows, R.E.M._

 

It was Friday evening, and Minerva McGonagall had just looked toward her closed office door for the twentieth time in as many minutes before shaking her head and chastising herself for being so anxious. It wasn’t fair to the girl to _expect_ her to be early just because she almost always was. Being on time when one was usually early didn’t make one late, after all, and the particular girl in question was as likely to be delayed by doing her duties as any other student might be from simply dallying. After having told herself quite firmly that she was being unreasonable, Minerva resolved to busy her mind with marking parchment until her Head Girl showed up as summoned. Just as she reached for her overlarge bottle of marking ink, the long-awaited (and yet, still unexpected, thanks to her forced preoccupation with other matters) knock on the large wooden door finally resounded through the room.

“C-come in!” McGonagall stuttered, trying vainly to grab hold of the slippery bottle that she’d knocked over when startled. The thick crimson ink pumped almost gleefully from the neck of its glass container, flowing over everything and anything that the Gryffindor Head of House did _not_ want it to stain.

“Good evening, Professor—oh!” Lily Evans greeted as she entered the room, exclaiming in alarm as she saw the devastation being wrought on scores of rolls of parchment. “ _Es Purum_!” she cried, whipping her wand out as she spoke a charm that Minerva had never heard before. Immediately, the ink stains began to fade from view, and the older woman was able to nod appreciatively at her young student.

“Thank you, Miss Evans,” McGonagall said gratefully, casting a cleaning spell on her own stained fingers and stoppering the ill-behaved bottle of liquid before storing it in her desk. “I’ve not heard of that particular charm—did Professor Flitwick teach that to you?”

“Yes, he did,” Lily nodded. “I only wish I could perform the more complex version of it—it actually lifts the liquid into the air so you can save from wasting it.”

“I’d imagine that would be a very difficult one indeed,” the professor mused as she seated herself in her comfortable desk chair. “Though, I suppose that spells like those are very useful given your boisterous group of friends.” She raised her eyebrows at Lily, though her look was not unkind.

“Remus is better at Charms than I am, really,” Lily said, blushing. “Though, I do enjoy learning new ones.” The redhead’s tone was firm, almost defensive, and Minerva felt a small pang of guilt. She hadn’t been unconscious of the strength with which James Potter had chased Lily Evans, and while she disapproved of the frequency with which he and his close friends tended to get into trouble, she did appreciate that there were many redeeming qualities to the boys in question. That the young woman before her was unapologetic about her association with them was typical of a strong Gryffindor.

“Yes… well—I’ll be honest, Miss Evans—our house’s tendency towards holiday pranking is the main reason I called you here tonight.”

“Oh?” Lily’s expression was guarded.

“Gryffindor House still has a reputation to protect,” Minerva said, rising from behind her desk and moving to stand near the facing window, her face lit by the light of the waning moon. “I’m hoping that I can count on you to help uphold this reputation during the coming festivities?”

“I will do my best,” Lily replied after a pregnant pause, just short of having a hopeless expression on her face.

“I don’t expect miracles,” McGonagall said, before she could stop herself, earning a grateful smile from her companion. “If there’s anything that can be done to confine the celebrations to our own tower, I’ll be eternally grateful,” she added. “I don’t want to suggest that my fellow Heads of House are looking to increase their status by comparison, but…”

“I understand completely, professor,” Lily Evans said, laughing softly. “I’m sure at least two of them are already deep in planning discussions, but I’ll do what I can.”

=====

“Oi—Sirius!”

Still sore from the pickup game of Quidditch he’d played with James and a few others that evening, Sirius had drifted off to sleep not long after the two of them climbed the stairs to the dormitory. Through the haze of sleep, he could hear Potter calling him, but partly through exhaustion (he’d definitely overdone it for Hermia’s benefit, he’d already admitted that to himself, at least) and partly through laziness, he didn’t respond.

“—oof—OW, James!” Sirius howled, rubbing his head where the rough edge of a crusty old crocheted pillow had hit him soundly.

“I’m sorry!” his friend whined, defensively. “I thought you were asleep!”

“And _that’s_ how you chose to wake me? I’m glad I was just ignoring you! Come to think of it, _you_ should be glad I was just ignoring you!” Sirius said, rolling over and fumbling for his wand as he growled out his response to James.

“Well… don’t you want to know why I woke you up?” Prongs said, his voice losing some of its confidence after Sirius managed to grasp his wand through a handful of bedcovers.

“You think so?” Sirius said in a muffled voice, waving his weapon fiercely until catching it on his bed curtains made him lose the tenuous hold he’d had on the thing in the first place.

“Well, now I do,” James said with a definite note of smugness. “You wouldn’t have cast anything on me, Padfoot, not with a mouthful of pillow—you’re laying on your stomach, even!”

“Wouldn’t I?” Sirius said, trying for menace and failing when the aforementioned pillow impediment made his words sound more like ‘woon eye.’

“Scoot over before I sit on your back,” was James’s only response. Huffing slightly, Sirius rolled over again (conveniently taking most of his covers with him) so that James could sit beside him.

“This better be good, Prongs—I ache.”

“I would have thought you were used to showing off for the ladies, Sirius,” James teased.

“Didn’t you nearly break your leg the first time Lily sat in the front row?”

“Touché.”

“Well, out with it, stag-boy, I’m tired,” Sirius said, losing patience now.

“Don’t you want to know what you’ll be doing, this time tomorrow night?” James asked archly.

“That’s rather a personal question, don’t you think?” Sirius replied, grinning.

“The _party_ , Sirius—it’s tomorrow night!”

Sirius sat up. “So soon? Why didn’t you wake me sooner! We’ve got planning to do!”

=====

“Oh, good—you’re up already,” Sirius said cheerfully as he walked through the portrait hole behind James with an honest-to-goodness tray full of breakfast food. Hermione and Lily shared looks of astonishment, and it wasn’t until Sirius and James had nearly finished setting the table in front of them that either of the girls could speak.

“How is it that you’re awake?” Lily began bluntly.

“I hope you _asked_ the House Elves—” Hermione spoke at the same time as her friend.

“There’s a grand celebration tonight, my dear—sleep can wait,” James said expansively.

“Oh, sweet Merlin,” Lily swore, uncharacteristically, before putting her head down in Hermione’s lap.

“The House Elves love me, Mia,” Sirius said. “Besides—good planning and persuasion always goes better with good food, right Remus?”

“Planning? —and, you two are awake? You DO know it’s Saturday, right?” Remus said, moving to sit beside the still overwhelmed Head Girl.

“I’m wounded, Moony,” Sirius said, winking at Hermione.

“You’ll get over it, as usual,” Remus quipped, snagging a plate and a biscuit. “What, no pumpkin juice?”

“James has it,” Hermione observed, making a face when the boy in question took a huge sip out of the pitcher. “Were you raised in a barn?” she asked, eliciting a giggle from Lily and blank looks from everyone else. “Never mind.”

“Where’s Peter?” Lily asked, sitting up and aligning herself so that she was facing Hermione and Remus.

“Why—if he had helped us, would you turn your back on him, too?” James asked in a grumpy undertone. Just then, Peter entered the room, and stopped short when he heard his name and saw the tension in the room.

“Whatever it was, I didn’t do it—James did,” he said, immediately.

“Good man,” Sirius said, getting up and leading Peter to a chair. “Now that we’re all here—it’s time to get down to business.”

“Why do I have a feeling that I’m not going to like what I’m about to hear?” Lily moaned.

“Because you have good instincts,” Hermione assured her. They all laughed.

“Actually, it’s not as bad as it could have been,” Sirius said with a huge grin. “You see, James and I—with Peter and Remus’s blessing, of course—have decided to _generously_ donate our most ambitious prank yet to the cause of keeping tonight’s party a Gryffindor-only affair.”

“By the half-terrified looks on the women’s faces, you’re doing well, Sirius—do continue,” Remus said dryly.

“I don’t mind if I do, Moony,” Sirius said, missing the point entirely. “You see, we’d intended to have our dungbombs trigger at the presence of certain deserving and worthy people, but now—”

“You… what?!” Lily asked, a note of hysteria in her voice.

“Dung… _bombs_?” Hermione asked, emphasizing the plural. However, her voice was drowned out by her boyfriend’s frantic attempt to keep Lily calm, which, predictably, failed miserably.

“—but _now_ , we’re going to use them to keep OUT those people so our party can be Slytherin-free,” Sirius said quickly, covering a piece of toast with Lily’s favorite jam and floating it over to her with a nicely executed non-verbal charm.

“Oh, well, in THAT case…” Lily dangled with obvious sarcasm, but she accepted his offering of toast with enthusiasm.

“They’ve added a brilliant warning sound, too—so we’ll know when someone tries to get in,” Peter added excitedly. Hermione patted Lily’s hand comfortingly as her friend dropped her head on her shoulder and shut her eyes.

“All we need from you is a little help in marking all of the Gryffindor students so they don’t trigger the bombs,” James finished for Sirius.

“Hermia—would you like to be Head Girl for a day?” Lily asked plaintively.

=====

It turned out that the spell the boys wanted to cast on their fellow house members wasn’t anything more than a simple identification charm with a twist—it caused the affected person to glow slightly crimson. Hermione suspected that this would have been considered a severe inconvenience by Slytherins like Lucius Malfoy, but for all but a few of the younger students, it was worn as a badge of pride. James and his cadre of friends were already looked on by the underclassmen as sort of anti-heroes, Lily had told her, and as such many of the Gryffindors considered it quite the honor to be the object of a spellcast by them—even if had turned out to have negative results. Hermione was reminded of Fred and George—and of her own attempts at keeping order as a Prefect. For this reason, she had decided to stay close to Lily for the remainder of the day, knowing from experience just how much stress her friend must be going through.

The two girls headed outside, ostensibly to check for Gryffindor stragglers without the distinctive reddish glow, but Lily had started purposefully toward the Owlery.

“Professor McGonagall asked me to see if I could find a way to persuade the partygoers to stay in our own tower,” she told Hermione; “—and I have an idea for a sort of surprise costume party.”

“What do you mean by ‘surprise costume,’ Hermione wondered aloud.

“That’s the beauty of it,” Lily answered with a broad smile. “Back when I was ten, I was at a horribly stuffy party where the icebreaker was actually kind of interesting. Each person was given a famous person’s name (they could be fictional or otherwise) written on a piece of paper and they weren’t to look at it. Then, we all had to walk around handing it to others and try to guess who we were.”

“That actually does sound kind of fun,” Hermione admitted.

“It was—but how much _more_ fun would it be if you actually LOOKED like the person?” Lily exclaimed, looking over her shoulder at Hermione and beaming as she practically dashed up the Owlery steps.

“You mean with some sort of illusion charm? But, wouldn’t they just look in the mirror?” Hermione pointed out. “We’re all a bit competitive, Gryffindors.”

“That’s why we need Peter,” Lily said, confusing Hermione even more.

“Peter?”

“He doesn’t like to show off, but he’s _really_ good at illusion charms,” Lily said as she wrote a quick few sentences on a scrap of parchment and tucked it away on a post owl’s leg. “Peter’s more likely to come if he gets an owl,” she explained. “While I love James and the others dearly, they’re a bit blind to how sensitive Peter is, I’ll admit… not that he wouldn’t be mortified to know that I’d noticed.”

This revelation was difficult for Hermione, more so because of the kindness in Lily’s voice as she spoke about Peter’s personality traits. It was clear that the redhead had welcomed with open arms her boyfriend’s friends, warts and all, and the knowledge of how that openness would someday be repaid made Hermione’s eyes sting with tears for a few moments until she’d gotten a hold on herself. It helped that Lily’s idea fit in perfectly with Hermione’s plan for treating Peter with kindness—and she was definitely curious to learn about the shy boy’s hidden talent for illusion charms.

Hermione and Lily spent their time talking about the difference between Muggle and magical life as they waited for Peter in the courtyard. It was during times like these that Hermione practically forgot that she was meant to be out of place here, as she extolled the virtues of magical decorating (ten minutes, tops) versus doing it by hand. She’d just asked her friend whether she thought that magical versus manual labor tended to make the wizarding community complacent when Peter showed up.

“Hello Lily, Hermia—what did you—?”

“I need your talents, Peter,” Lily said without preamble. Peter couldn’t prevent a quick glance toward Hermione before he looked back at Lily in confusion. Before the two of them could get any more uncomfortable about having a secret they couldn’t share with her (one she already knew about, to boot), Hermione spoke up.

“Lily says you’re amazing at illusion charms, Peter—and she’s got a rather interesting idea for the party tonight. Want to take a walk with us?”

Peter let out a long breath before responding, hesitantly; “She did? Well, thank you Lily—sure, I’ll walk with you.”

=====

The time had come. Peter donned the Invisibility Cloak and headed downstairs—though there was still nearly an hour to go before the Halloween party officially began, the preciousness of the garment and the possibility of running, invisible, into an excited young First Year meant that it would be much safer to get into position before the bulk of his fellow housemates arrived at the tower. Pettigrew chose a route that took him past Lily, who was busy casting spells that threw loops of crepe paper streamers in crimson and gold to hang from the ceiling and walls.

“Thanks again, Lily,” he whispered in her ear, his confidence bolstered by the way her face lit up with a smile in response. He was more grateful than she probably realized; this was his chance to show off his skill at something that was more of an accomplishment than simply following in his friend’s footsteps. Admittedly, it was a rare and amazing achievement to _become_ an Animagi, rather than to have been born one, but besides the fact of it being illegal, he’d also been the last of the three to manage to do it correctly, which pretty much negated the ‘achievement’ aspect of it entirely.

Hermia had conjured a little ledge for him above the portrait hole (after politely asking the occupants of the painting he’d be hovering in front of for their blessing) in case he grew tired on his broom, but also to protect him from being seen by anyone looking directly up—the Cloak was magical, but it didn’t have enough fabric to cross under his feet comfortably.

Peter had with him a list of possible costumes, with a few specific notes for particular students such as Steffie and the impossibly tiny little First Year named Sylar who tended to sneeze a lot. Hermia had also suggested that he pick anyone _but_ Celestina Warbeck for Juli’s costume, and he’d agreed. Grinning invisibly, Peter stretched out his wand and conjured an image of a very small old woman with wispy white hair and a cane around Hermia. Being a very knowledgeable Muggle-born costumed as the venerable Bathilda Bagshot would be a delightful discovery for Miss James, he was sure. Quickly, before Lily could catch sight of Hermia’s costume, he cast again, this time towards the red-haired Head Girl.

The girls’ reaction on seeing each other brought an even bigger grin to Peter’s face, and he set about examining his list, mentally checking off each costume as he cast it so that there would be no duplicates.

=====

Hermione was having a blast. Predictably, she’d figured out who she was costumed as in short order, but the thoughtfulness of Peter’s illusion was enough to make up for her speedy deduction. While she wasn’t well versed in Quidditch history, she managed to recognize James’s costume immediately—‘Dangerous Dai’ Llewellyn had a ward of St. Mungo’s named after him due to his tragic death via chimera bite. She was pretty certain that Peter had chosen this illusion based on the fact that Llewellyn was known for being very reckless on the pitch, though, rather than his untimely death.

Her strangest encounter of the night (up to that point, at least) was with Fiona McCready, who had clearly managed to find a stash of Firewhiskey, and whose gait was nearly as unsteady as her accent was thick, tonight. The young woman didn’t appear to have any sort of illusion cast on her, and Hermione wondered whether Peter had decided not to confuse their classmate with one, or whether the enchantment wouldn’t stick on someone who was as drunk as she appeared to be.

“Fiona—how on earth have you managed to get so sloshed on our small supply of alcohol!” James asked the Irishwoman warmly, holding out an arm to steady her.

“Ye’ve some here, then?” Fiona slurred pleasantly. “I’ve bin searchin’ tha trunks in tha dorm—but don’ tell tha ladies.”

James and Hermione shared a look of amusement, though Hermione privately had to persuade herself not to dash upstairs immediately to see what sort of havoc the Quidditch player had wrought. _She_ knew she didn’t have any sort of contraband in her trunk, but Fiona wouldn’t have known that. Some of her anxiety must have shown on her face (or, rather, Bathilda’s face), because James patted her gently on the arm.

“Don’t worry about it, she’s too far gone to have remembered reading any love poems,” Potter teased smoothly.

“It’s not love poems I’m worried about—not that there ARE any,” Hermione said quickly, trying to cover for herself, but James was laughing heartily along with Fiona, who was listing to the side dangerously.

“Have ye seen Herm-Hemia-H… (hic)?” McCready asked, trying to focus on James’s face but whose gaze seemed to be fixed on a point somewhere to his left. “I wan te ask wha was in this bottle.”

Fiona held up a small flask that looked to have held some sort of red liquid at one point, but which was now empty. A sort of hilarious dread started forming in the pit of Hermione’s stomach as she stared at the bottle, for she knew almost immediately what it was.

Sirius’s love potion—or, rather, what was left of it.

“If ye see her, tell ‘er it was verra tasty, will ye?” Fiona said blearily, before lurching away in what Hermione sincerely hoped was _not_ Sirius’s direction. She made as if to follow the redheaded thief, but James stopped her with a hand that shook with his laughter.

“Think, Hermia—is she going to even recognize him?”

“But—well… no, not likely,” Hermione admitted. She made a note to herself that she could not, _would not_ forget to track down Fiona and give her a piece of her mind—and, James’s interference or not, Hermione made sure to move to a place in the room where she could see Sirius holding court. She had to admit that his costume was, in light of everything that he’d gone through in the past few years, incredibly ironic, and very amusing. 

In what she was certain he viewed as a coup for his side of the one-man war he was waging with the Ancient and Noble House of Black, Sirius’s illusion displayed him as Phineas Nigellus Black, his own great-great-grandfather, and a former Headmaster of Hogwarts. The irony of it wasn’t lost on anyone older than the age of fourteen, and Sirius was basking in triumphant glory at the other side of the room. She and Remus (who had liked the idea of the costumes but managed to cast something on himself that prevented his being transformed into something) had needed to stop Sirius from leaving the tower looking for his brother, and the best they could come up with was a mock Hogwarts staff meeting with the other students who’d been transformed into former (and current) staff members.

The fake staff meeting had been mostly Lily’s idea, drawing on the fact that Sirius happened to be the only one dressed as a Headmaster, as well as the fact that she would be included in that particular subset of costumes. Hermione had nearly fallen off of the chair she’d been seated in when she’d first seen Lily’s costume—and when Professor McGonagall herself showed up at the party, many of the assembled students mimicked her reaction. For the brief period of time that their Head of House was uncostumed, there were _two_ Professor McGonagalls in the common room! Hermione wasn’t able to recognize the image of the person Peter chose to cast on McGonagall, but none of the partygoers really had time to guess at it either, for shortly after the professor’s arrival, there came an inhuman wailing sound from just outside the portrait hole, as well as a putrid smell and acrid smoke.

As the majority of the students retreated toward the boys’ and girls’ dormitories, a small number of Gryffindors ran _toward_ the entranceway.

“Excellent! I wonder who we caught!” James crowed. “Think it’s Snivellus?”  
“I wish you wouldn’t call him that,” Hermione complained, but her objection was swallowed by the sounds of excitement and anticipation coming from the young people all around her.

“We’ll find out shortly,” Sirius said, throwing the round door open with a flourish. “SHOW YOURSELF!” he boomed, pulling his wand out commandingly and aiming it directly at what would be face-level for anyone entering the common room. The other revelers did so as well, though Hermione kept her wand at her side, determined to prevent anything that would result in a trip to the infirmary for whoever had been foolish enough to attempt to enter the Gryffindor Tower tonight.

“I assume,” came the dreadfully calm, dreadfully _familiar_ voice at the door, “—that there is a perfectly _ordinary_ excuse for all of this?”

It was Albus Dumbledore, his robes slightly wilted, beard smoldering, brilliant blue eyes twinkling despite the haze that surrounded him.


	47. Paved With Good Intentions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope everyone had a happy holiday season, for those celebrating. It was hard not to have time to write for a chunk of days straight, but everything is going back to normal now!

“All our experience with history should teach us, when we look back, how badly human wisdom is betrayed when it relies on itself.”  
 _-Martin Luther_

 

It took every ounce of Sirius Black’s admittedly limited grasp on his composure to keep a straight face on seeing their Headmaster in such a condition. To his very great surprise, it was Professor McGonagall whose laughter broke through the stunned silence of those assembled around the portrait hole. Dumbledore’s look of bemused confusion turned to shock and then amusement as the Gryffindor Head of House waved away her costume as Circe, the Greek sorceress, and stepped forward. Sirius had already told himself he definitely had to clap Peter on the back for that particular in-joke—Circe had been reputedly known to turn humans into beasts, a clever costume for an animagi.

“By all appearances, Headmaster, you are trespassing,” McGonagall said, to the delight of the students who’d been brave enough to stick around. She played the part beautifully, her severe look and raised eyebrow trained on one of her colleagues, for once.

“By all appearances, Professor, _you_ are an impostor,” Dumbledore said gravely, diffusing his seriousness with a wink. “If I may assist you clearing up the misunderstanding…” With a wave of his wand and a quietly spoken spell, the costumes of everyone at the doorway melted away, including Lily’s version of Professor McGonagall. Sirius was disappointed—he hadn’t yet had the chance to tease Hermia that she was far too old for him dressed as Bathilda Bagshot, but if spoiling their magical costume party was all the punishment they had in store for setting off a dungbomb on their headmaster… Predictably, though, the awkward silence that had followed Dumbledore’s action was broken by a gently-worded inquery.

“I presume that the foul-smelling welcome party I just received was in error?”

With a start of horror, Sirius realized that there were still three to five more dungbombs arrayed around the portrait of the Fat Lady, which were set on a clever time delay that Remus had devised to prevent the necessity of restocking them during the party. Pulling his wand from his pocket quickly but quietly, he aimed it in their general direction (blocked as they were from sight by the open portal to the common room) and whispered a freezing charm. At the same time, he heard James offering a weak laugh before basically hinting at their plan with fake bravado.

“Well, actually, sir, I think you’d be proud of our choice to keep you neutral—being the Headmaster, and all,” Prongs said confidently. 

“Indeed?” said Dumbledore. Sirius snuck a look around at the students crowding the doorway. All of them looked as though wild thestrals couldn’t have scared them away, visible or not.

“Well,” Peter started to say, his voice withering away when all eyes fixed on him.

“Well,” James continued, “they’re charmed to keep away anyone who isn’t a Gryffindor—”

“And while we know _you_ are a Gryffindor,” Sirius chimed in, nodding at James to step in.

“You’re not exactly supposed to takes sides anymore, so—”

“—we didn’t charm them to ignore you, so that you could…” Sirius was drawing a blank, but James was pointedly looking away, and Remus was looking at his shoes, the git. “…could…” He was starting to sweat, and he’d be damned if he wasn’t going to take this out on the other three in a really nasty way, as soon as he could think of one. Not that thinking well on his feet was his strong suit right now. “Well, sir,” he mumbled.

“Well, sir,” Hermia echoed, continuing, “as you know, the spell to exclude someone from a charmed dungbomb requires organic material from that person—”

Sirius had always known he would fall for a genius.

“Exactly!” James crowed. “Taking something like that from _you_ , sir—”

Professor McGonagall cleared her throat loudly.

“I mean, it’s not like you have a classroom they could search for shed hairs,” Remus said.

_They?_ Sirius mouthed at Lupin behind McGonagall’s back, earning himself a cheeky grin.

“I appreciate the courtesy, then,” Dumbledore said unexpectedly. “It seems you thought your plan through quite carefully. However meticulous you might have been in your _execution_ ,” he said, pausing dangerously on the last word, “some other pranksters appear to have made off with some of your ‘Gryffindor-coded’ dungbombs, depositing them just outside the entrance to the Slytherin dungeons.”

Sirius kept his expression completely devoid of all emotion, not daring to glance at any of his fellow Marauders, not even when Professor McGonagall _and_ Lily each made ‘hmph’ noises at ‘some other pranksters.’

“As it happens,” the headmaster continued, “only a few of them have gone off, as the Slytherins are engaged in their own festivities. However, since you four are undoubtedly the experts in handling these things, you are the ones I must call on to clean up that hallway. Miss Evans, as I’m certain you were completely uninvolved in this, I will ask you to escort these young men to their destination and back with all of the ammunition unexploded, if you please, and as Miss James must know the fastest route from here to the Slytherin dungeons, she can guide you.”

With that, Professor Dumbledore nodded to everyone, bade them a good evening, and started to walk away. Sirius wasn’t sure how many other students caught the barely perceptible twitch of his robes and the muttering that had to be a spell to reverse Sirius’s spell on the frozen dungbombs, but when Sirius pushed his way out of the portrait hole to check, sure enough, the five arrayed dungbombs were ready and waiting for their next victim.

“Well, you heard the headmaster, folks! Off to the Slytherin dungeons!” James said, stepping forward as he spoke to the gathered students. He swept his arms out expansively and turned to point his wand in the right direction, waving on a hesitant second year with such authority that Sirius had to fake a yawn to hide his laughter.

“Mister Potter, a word?” Professor McGonagall spoke in a dry voice that not even the first year students could mistake as an optional request. What caught Sirius’s eye, though, was Hermia’s reaction—she had jerked in surprise the second their Head of House had spoken. While he was curious, his mind for mischief kept his attention on the unfolding drama in front of him, and he wrote off Hermia’s odd reaction as simple nerves from someone unused to being in trouble.

“Certainly, my lady,” James said expansively, stopping just short of bowing in front of McGonagall. From behind the first row of boggle-eyed Gryffindors, there came a choking sound that Sirius recognized as Remus trying not to laugh.

“As delighted as you may be by the prospect of turning this into a spectacle,” she told Prongs, “I, as you might imagine, am not. Do as you were told, for once, and I’ll endeavor not to inform Mr. Filch in about an hour that four of his _favorite_ students just may be out after hours. Understood?”

“Yes, thank you,” Peter said unexpectedly, squaring his shoulders and nodding at Sirius and Remus. Given their last detention served under Filch, Sirius realized that it shouldn’t have shocked him to see Wormtail taking the initiative. Peter took out his wand to re-instate everyone’s costumes, and Sirius smiled encouragingly at Hermia, hoping she would favor him with one of her brilliant smiles—which she did. Just then, Lily stepped out purposefully and started down the hallway to the stairs, pausing to raise her eyebrows at the five of them in a gesture that clearly told them they had better hurry up.

For a long, delicious second, Sirius pictured what his two friends’ children would someday be like. If he had any luck, they’d have Lily’s beauty and James’s temperament, and he, Sirius, could be the instigating uncle. He resolved to teach Prongs’s future offspring as many prank spells as he could get away with before Lily caught on. It took Hermia’s light whack on his arm with her wand to pull him back to the present, and he flashed James a broad grin before offering his arm to his own girlfriend for the walk downstairs.

=====

“One of you lot could _help_ , you know,” James complained loudly, looking over to where Hermione was leaning against the wall next to Lily’s perch on the base of an over-large sculpture of ancient guardian knights. Remus was propped up with his arms behind his head at Lily’s feet. Hermione could tell he was clearly the target of Potter’s ire, as Peter was lurking about a dozen yards away, acting as a lookout in case either Filch or any Slytherin students came into view. In contrast, James and Sirius were walking (though, the longer their task took, the more their movements seemed better described as ‘stalking’) back and forth across the broad hallway, casting cleansing spells every few feet to chase the stink of the already-exploded dungbombs away.

“I should have realized the old man would make it hard on us,” James added darkly. “This is definitely a four man job, if not more.”

“I wouldn’t want to show you up, dearest,” Lily told him sweetly. “We’re only doing what you told us to, after all.”

“’Have a seat, ladies, Sirius and I can have this cleaned up in no time!’” Sirius mocked, spelling a section of noxious dungbomb fumes into oblivion with a particularly vehement flick of his wand as he mimicked James’s earlier words.

“Nice job trying to tease me into helping, but if I recall correctly, James did order the rest of us to sit lest we ‘muck everything up,’” Remus said.

“I take it back!” James coughed, stepping out from inside a cloud of smoke. “I can’t _believe_ he spelled this to be ten times thicker than normal!”

“Well, at least you’re almost done,” Hermione said, holding back a laugh at the sour look on James’s face. “Besides, you don’t see Sirius complaining.”

“That’s because he’s just shooing all the nasty stuff over onto my side!”

“For shame, Sirius,” Remus chided. “This marble flooring is hard on one’s backside, you know.”

“If you weren’t hiding between Lily and Mia—” Sirius started to say, but he paused when Peter’s pre-arranged signal of a flash of gold sparks flew past them down the hallway. Hermione and the others started for the small nook behind the sculpture; the hallway was too long to risk rushing for the far end of it.

“James Potter you get back out there and pick up the dungbomb you ‘forgot!’” Lily hissed in a low voice. “—and don’t you _dare Accio_ it!”

“Picky, picky,” James said, but did as he was told. He was barely back to their hiding place before the recognizable voices of a number of Slytherin seventh years told them that they weren’t alone in the hallway.

“—don’t know what gave you the impression that I was lying to you when I told you _this afternoon_ that I hadn’t yet made my decision,” Severus Snape was saying.

“His patience doesn’t always extend to the youngest and most _arrogant_ of his followers,” Lucius Malfoy snapped, his angry whisper easily traveling to Hermione’s ears, as the two seemed to be standing on the other side of the sculpture. “If you don’t give me an answer by Monday—”

“Until I choose to be one of His followers, that remains _your_ problem, then, doesn’t it?” Snape interrupted coolly. “And in case you haven’t noticed, I haven’t said no, either!”

To Hermione’s ears, Severus Snape’s typical practiced calm was completely missing, although she suspected that his body language wasn’t displaying as much raw emotion as his tone of voice, as that wasn’t his style. However, she found that her estimation was completely wrong, as seconds later the black-clad young man swept past them at a brisk and angry walk. That wasn’t as surprising as what happened next: barely had her future professor moved out of sight before Lily stepped out of their hiding place and gone after him.

James muttered a curse under his breath and made to follow her, but Sirius placed a firm hand on his chest and shook his head, turning to whisper an explanation in Hermione’s direction.

“They used to be friends, Lily and—”

“If that foul git touches her, I’ll—” James hissed.

“Not likely, remember what she called him the last time they had a chat?” Remus said. “Let her go, she’s got a reason to be out, we haven’t.”

At that, James lapsed into a moody silence, and as they waited for the sound of Malfoy’s presence to fade, Hermione tried to process the information she’d just learned. Lily Evans Potter and Severus Snape— _friends_? It seemed impossible to believe, even more so as she hadn’t caught a hint of it from either party, in either time period, for that matter. And what had happened to ruin their unlikely friendship? From the brief glimpse she’d had of Lily’s face before her friend had rushed after Severus, whatever had happened between them had been significant, and probably hurtful to Lily. She was still going over her memories of the two of them when Peter showed up to give them the all clear.

=====

Peter felt a rush of pride when the six of them climbed in through the portrait hole to find the party going almost full-swing, despite the late hour. Nearly all of the students were still in their magical costumes, and a few of the older, more talented students had embellished them to mostly humorous effect. Almost as soon as they’d all made it into the common room, Steffie Kirke let out an impressive wolf-whistle and called the room to attention.

“I just want to give a _huge_ Gryffindor thank you to Sirius Black and James Potter for making this party possible!” she announced brightly. A chorus of agreement rose up immediately, in direct contrast to Peter’s sinking heart. Had not _one_ of his fellow housemates noticed who it was that had cast their costume spell? He shot a quick, hopeful look toward James, but to his disgust, Potter was bowing and smiling as though he deserved the adulation. Sirius was no better, nodding in acceptance to their stolen accolades like he had personally arranged everything. Peter looked for Lily, hoping that she could exercise her authority as Head Girl now that Professor McGonagall had left, but she was deep in conversation with Hermia, and it looked like neither girl had much noticed the goings-on in the common room at all. 

Peter felt lost and abandoned, his emotions fighting between sadness and anger. He wanted dearly to say something, maybe a cool, casual holler to Potter, ‘Hey, nice try taking all the credit!’ Something told him that his voice would either get lost in the crowd, or he’d get laughed at, so he turned and headed toward his dormitory, feeling more and more despairing with every step. This was supposed to have been his moment, his chance to prove that he wasn’t the slowest and stupidest member of a four man team—except it wasn’t a team, was it? he asked himself. Peter moved by rote, dressing in his night clothes and folding up what he’d worn absently, his mind going over the past six years with a different eye. His friends weren’t _using_ him, were they? He immediately rejected this conclusion; he had enough evidence that they genuinely considered him their friend, but that almost made things _worse_ , because it meant they saw their behavior as normal, expected.

Peter sat down heavily on his bed and looked around the empty room, blinking quickly every time the view became slightly blurry due to the tears he was holding back. Were his friends really his friends? They thought they were, but were their actions that of true friends, or had they grown apart subtly over the years? Peter didn’t play Quidditch, he wasn’t quick with his wand in the way that Sirius was, nor was he obsessive about studies like Remus was. He was… calm. Methodical. _Boring,_ his inner voice supplied. He thought about the strange talk he’d had with Lucius Malfoy, the way the other boy, for all intents and purposes his _enemy_ , had pointed out Peter’s strengths—and, stranger still, had hinted that they were traits that more houses than just Gryffindor valued. It had been partly due to the way Lucius had pressed him about being recognized for his abilities that Peter had put himself forward to head the entertainment part of their party planning. What he’d done had been difficult, and he knew it’d been clever. Remus had even said as much. But where had Remus been when James and Sirius had taken all the credit? Peter scanned the room, but there was no tell-tale gangly lump in Lupin’s bed. He must have gone on one of his solitary walks. _So much for Marauder solidarity_ , Peter thought to himself viciously.

His stomach twisting, Peter conjured up a glass of water and chugged it in less than a minute. He hated this feeling, the one where he felt disconnected and a little (a lot, this time. More than he’d ever felt) rejected. It usually passed, after he’d woken the next morning and Sirius or Remus sheepishly hauled out their messy notes (or, for James, the notes Lily’d taken before he’d snitched them the night before) and tried to help, apologizing sometimes for their having blown him off for dates or Quidditch or whatever. This time, though… he didn’t know what they could say this time. This wasn’t seeing him studying in the common room and begging off to go snog. This was… this was ruining his chances at showing his peers he wasn’t just a follower, a hanger-on. This was serious.

And Lucius Malfoy had told him it would happen.

A tear managed to broach his defenses to slide down his cheek just as he was climbing into bed. As much as he hated feeling like this, he hated feeling like it was going to happen again and again even more. There had to be something he could do to prove to his friends that he was the person they’d thought he was when they’d all become friends in the beginning. Back then, none of them had known James would be so bloody good at Quidditch, had they? Certainly they’d not known about Lupin’s ‘monthlies,’ as Remus had once jokingly called his condition. Even Sirius had turned out to seem heroic, sort of, by way of rejecting his family’s traditions of blood snobbery. Peter just hadn’t had his moment, yet—and it looked like the rest of them had just convinced themselves that he never would. Good old Peter, the dud. He took a deep breath and clenched his fists. He had to do something about this, but it clearly had to be bigger than just orchestrating a clever night for his housemates. It had to be _big_ , something only he could do. 

Something James and Sirius couldn’t take away from him.


	48. Like Father, Like Son

It's been a long day coming and long will it last  
when it's last day leaving, and I'm helping it pass  
by loving you more  
And who he would become, all the things he'd have done  
would he have loved you, and not let you down  
- _Isobel_ , Dido

 

All Saint’s Day dawned _far_ too bright and cheerfully for the few Gryffindor students who were awake to see the sunrise, though even those precious few all rolled back over in their various beds with curtains newly drawn and pillows firmly pulled over their heads. Not one student came to breakfast from their house. It was, as James said as the group of them left lunch, a crowning achievement. 

Hermione was so caught up in the infectious spirit of the last 24 hours that when he said this, she did something completely uncharacteristic of herself. She remembered an adorable little charm Molly Weasley had shown her that Ron and his brothers had loved when they were little boys. It conjured a wee crown that spun, sparkled, and floated above the target’s head for about a half hour. When Hermione cast it, under her breath and partly hidden behind Remus, it never occurred to her that James would even realize, much less spin around and fire off an _Expelliarmus!_ as soon as it graced his head.

Hermione’s wand soared in a graceful arc above Peter, Remus, Sirius, and Lily’s heads, snatched out of the air an inch above James’s outstretched hand.

Minerva McGonagall held Hermione’s wand in her hand where she’d caught it above her head--lifted almost as high as her eyebrows upon seeing two of her 7th year Gryffindor students using magic in the hallways.

=====

Perhaps it was the cheeky crown, still twirling and twinkling above James’s head.

Perhaps it was the fact that they were two of her best Transfiguration students, even for NEWT-level classes.

Perhaps it was the fact that she was speechless for a full two minutes after catching them.

The reason was probably all three and more besides, but Professor McGonagall hadn’t even allowed them to continue to their final classes that day. She led James and Hermione straight to her classroom, through it, and into a small room adjoining the classroom and her office. It was almost as small as a closet, housing three desks and a shallow tray that their angry head of house soon filled with essays.

“It’s just as well that I am slightly tardy in starting to grade these,” she told them primly. “Third-year essays. Explanations of their preferred transfiguration spell learned in their second year and expanded on in their third. You will find them inane and full of filler, such as,” McGonagall picked up the essay at the top of the pile and read a sentence, presumably at random. “‘ _My favorite spell is the one I loved the most from last year, and as soon as I learned it I was excited because it turned out to be my favorite_.’” 

Hermione scooched past her professor and sat down meekly at the desk nearest the window just as James started to move toward the same one. He pleaded with her with his eyes to swap him, but Hermione simply lifted her gaze pointedly to the merry crown that blazed from just above his messy hair, and then locked eyes with him again, raising an eyebrow quite reminiscent of McGonagall’s own not five minutes before. When James dropped himself into the desk beside Hermione, McGonagall nodded with satisfaction and turned to leave. 

“I am charming the door to open when the essays are completely read and marked,” she said with her back turned to them, raising her wand.

“Wait! How can we possibly mark them as well as you would have done?” Hermione cried out. “This is for their _grade!_ ”

“You are quite welcome to devise a grading spell as complex as the one I usually use for this purpose, rather than doing it by hand,” was the unexpected response. “However, I doubt if Mr. Black and Ms. Evans would be willing to wait the two years that it took me to create it before concocting some foolish scheme to rescue the two of you,” McGonagall said, her head turned just enough to flash them an exasperated look. “So I suggest you two remain satisfied with the twenty points you’ve lost our house already and _get to work._ ”

=====

It took about a half hour before Sirius passed a note to Remus with three suggestions on what to do to liberate them.

Remus read the first suggestion and promptly set the note on fire. 

=====

Hermione tried not to be vexed by the fact that she was on her fifth (awful, vapid, _cringe-worthy_ ) essay and James on his second by the time his crown finally puttered a bit and _ping!_ ed out of existence. After all, even if this had been a detention served with Harry (who was a bit more studious than his father, something she’d been able to see first-hand after having classes with James over the past two months), the circumstances would probably have been the same. Still, her intent hadn’t been to _duel_ , just to be a bit… impudent. It was James who had cast a disarming spell.

It was just that Harry really was the image of his father. Lily’s genes had tempered the arrogance to a certain extent, and Harry had a thick swathe of sweetness to his character that James definitely didn’t display, but their core personality was so very similar, even their mannerisms. For example, that _grin_. The aching similarity had long since ceased its ability to stop her breath for a few seconds, the resemblance so close that it had felt almost like a physical blow to see Harry doubled in James’s body. Now it she would liken it to a soft thump, not unlike the way Harry would tap at her for her attention, or the way she used to whap at him when he’d set off her temper.

She actually felt _grateful_ that in their time, Remus hadn’t had enough time with Harry, because she was hard-pressed not to get emotional about it, and she hadn’t lived through near as much as Remus would. _That_ thought almost needed a steady cast of _Expecto Patronum!_ to dispel.

Instead, a movement near her head had her looking up to find that James had leaned over to wave his hand back and forth above her head.

“You’re fuming so much your hair is smoking,” he said, not entirely unkindly. “I might have said earlier, but, I _am_ sorry.”

“Me too,” Hermione said, surprising herself in that, up until she said it, she hadn’t really been sorry.

“McGonagall’s _face!_ ”

“The lot of you must have infected me with some sort of disease, because I cannot believe I didn’t think not to do that in the hall!” Hermione said, giggling at James’s impression of McGonagall.

“You know,” James said, mercifully placing his completed second essay in the ‘done’ tray. “We did that to Remus, too. Fourth year. It’s almost a rite of passage. Forgot himself and conjured up a bouquet for Sirius when we were pretending to dance for an imaginary Yule ball.”

Hermione looked surprised. She charmed her fifth essay into place, and _Leviosa_ ’d another to her desk. James saw the look on her face and smiled, waiting for the rest of the realization to hit, as though he knew for sure she was smart enough to catch the implication.

“Don’t tell me you four created your own Tri-Wizard--”

“We took turns making the Tasks,” James confirmed, turning the desk chair sideways and leaning back to cross his feet against the wall. He tried floating his third essay to the done box before he’d gotten to the second scroll, only to be struck in the head as it came flying back out at double speed.

Hermione _tsk_ ed, both at James and at an embarrassing mistake by a Hufflepuff student on her essay.

“Well, this one’s a Gryffindor for certain,” James said, holding up the offending scroll for her to see. “‘ _My gran is very mean and often throws my boots at me. My favorite spell is ‘boot’ to ‘balloon’ and I hope I can get an exception at least once this summer to spare my head. The look on her face will be worth the punishment by the Ministry even if I don’t._ ’” He pulled the roll of parchment flat at the end to see the signature, and let out a triumphant ‘Ha! to see that he had been right.

“At least yours are somewhat interesting, James--I’ve had three ‘porcupine to pincushion’ ones in a row. Two are suspiciously similar,” Hermione said, dipping her quill _yet again_ into the red ink.

“Anyway, as I was saying,” James said, getting up to walk his third essay to the ‘done’ box again. “That’s when we realized how good Peter was at illusion charms. He did my Task, and he got a couple other Gryffindors to agree to be illusioned into dragons.” He looked over at Hermione and popped his eyes as big as saucers for a couple of seconds. “It was _brilliant_.” 

James braced himself with one hand on the desk as he dropped the already-rejected essay into ‘done,’ and immediately dropped flat, just in case he hadn’t been thorough enough. Then he told her all about the fake Task that Peter had set up for him, hands gesturing grandly at some parts, his body hunched over the essay he was marking as he described other parts. When he was done, Hermione’s stomach was cramped from the laughter.

James looked so much like Harry with his own dragon Task that Hermione allowed herself just a few seconds to cover her face during one of James’s ‘hiding for dear life’ descriptive moments, willing herself not to cry. 

As the two of them drifted back into productive silence, Hermione spent the next half hour with half of her attention on the essays and half of it searching desperately through her memories with Harry, trying to find one that would fit well enough into Hermia’s backstory that she could tell it to his father without destroying her own credibility. When she finally lit on one, just thinking about sharing it with James filled her with so much adrenaline and anticipation that she could almost smell the hormone coursing through her.

“One of my best friends from back home, he would have absolutely been sorted to Gryffindor,” Hermione said, carefully correcting a ‘ _Rarpero_ ’ to ‘ _Reparo_ ’ in an essay. “We shared a tutor; he lived with Muggles, too.” Hermione was careful to frame her lie as close to the truth as she could. She looked up to see James turning his head to look at her, interest in what she was saying clear on his face. He hadn’t grabbed a new essay to mark (though _finally_ , they were at least half finished), and Hermione gave him a pointed look.

“Hermia, I promise, I won’t make you do more than 80% of the work,” James said, looking perfectly serious. “Please go on.” He grabbed another pair of scrolls and paused his quill above the first, waiting for her to speak again.

“How Remus managed to make Prefect with you for a friend I will never comprehend,” Hermione said, but she went on to tell James about how she’d been confronted by a Mountain Troll (this version was while on a nature walk with her fellow unnamed tutored students) in what would have been her third year, and how her very dear best friends had done everything they could to protect her and defeat it. She threw in that ‘Harvey’ had even used a Patronus to send word to their tutor. Hermione knew she couldn’t tell James everything exciting about her friendship with Harry, but telling Harry’s father that his son could cast a Patronus in his third year of school seemed really, really important in that moment.

Hermione told stories and James asked questions, some silly (‘Was there a great deal of snot on the troll?’ ‘Actually, yes, now that you bring that up. Tons.’), some frighteningly perceptive (‘You can use a Patronus as a messenger?! _Smashing!_ ’ ‘Err, yes, I didn’t realize that wasn’t a well-known use of the spell -?’) until the sun set, sending its last rays of light in a column that cut between the two of them from Hermione’s window desk. 

When they were finally finished and the door unlocked, Hermione was surprised when James didn’t just rush out after being trapped with her for the better part of eight hours. Instead, he stretched luxuriously, his hands spread wide and reaching for the ceiling just like the antlers of his animagus form. Then, he turned to her.

“It’s been a pleasure serving the absolute Worst Detention Ever with you, Miss Hermia James.”

Hermione beamed at him, and nodded back.

“Of course, I have a reputation to protect,” he said to her as they let themselves out of McGonagall’s darkened classroom. 

“Unquestionably,” Hermione said. James stopped walking and turned to her, looking almost vulnerable.

“So don’t--” he stopped, then gave her a very brief but heartfelt hug. “Don’t take it the wrong way when I throw you under the Knight Bus in about two minutes, yeah?”

Hermione was very glad that Professor McGonagall had had their house-mates take their bags when she’d taken them off to detention. It meant she had no impediment to what she planned to do next.

“As long as you won’t take it personally when I do the same to you, James dear--because I’m going to get there first.” With that, Hermione Granger ran through the halls of Hogwarts like her very life depended on it, with James Potter at her heels.

He only beat her there by 10 seconds.

=====

It was past 9 pm when James and Hermia finally crawled their way back into the common room.

“Bored. To. Death.” James said, throwing himself dramatically on his back at Remus’s feet.

“You’re just saying that because there’s no way in hell I’d hex you for insulting me after the day we just had,” Hermia said. Her hair was sticking out of her bun in all directions, almost as though having spent so much time with James had caused sympathetic disarray. “Anyway, it was only boring for you because I don’t have any secrets, and you told me all of yours,” she said, adding, “Good night!” Hermia hid a grin behind her yawn so subtly that Sirius was sure he was the only one who had caught it. 

He knew she knew what she was doing: escaping to a peaceful bed while the rest of them interrogated James as to what he might have told her. It started the second she reached the top of the stairs. The look of dismay on James’s face hinted at the real reason Hermia had done this: _she_ was off the hook for a break-down of their detention, and could go off to sleep straight away. _James_ was given no such luck.

“Was that the longest detention ever, or what?!” Peter said.

“Secrets, James?” Remus asked, as the one with the most of them.

“Please tell me you did a good job at whatever it is she had you two doing,” said Lily, in full Head Girl. 

Sirius didn’t really have anything to ask, but James turned to him first anyway.

“You need to marry that girl. No way are we allowing her to go back to wherever it is she came from without being sure she’ll come back,” James said. “She’s one of us, Padfoot.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is the first of many newly written chapters for this story! We're almost caught up, in which case it'll slow down posting, hopefully not painfully so. <3


	49. ...and the Reason is You

The truth is, everyone is going to hurt you. You just got to find the ones worth suffering for.  
- _Bob Marley_

 

“That didn’t look like self-preservation to me.”

Severus’s long strides faltered for a brief second on hearing Lily’s voice, more at the tone of derision in it than the fact that it was her speaking. He had long since trained himself to show no indication of his regard for her when hearing her talk. _That_ had been self-preservation. Lily didn’t know it, but though he didn’t stop walking when she spoke to him, he did change his destination. It was a shame that they weren’t nearer to the moving staircases. If there was anything that killed a good angry confrontation, it was the moving staircases. No one could look self-righteous and noble when arguing on a marble Ferris Wheel.

Severus’s steps faltered again, and stopped. Lily Evans was the only reason he even knew what a Ferris Wheel _was_ in the first place.

“Lucius Malfoy is not the kind of person a good man wants to associate with,” Lily said, coming up behind him. Reluctantly, he was impressed. Though he was taller than she, and he had been, well… _stalking_ away with a fair bit of energy when she’d called out to him, she hadn’t bothered to hurry, hadn’t sped up her pace to come to him out of breath and at a disadvantage. She was angry, yes, but her breathing was even, her eyes flashing, ready to fight him. Lily was completely and utterly beautiful.

“What gave you the impression that I am a good man in the first place?” he asked.

“You have always been a good man in the making, Severus,” Lily said, walking over to stand directly in his line of sight, rather than beside him. Now, if he wished to walk away, he would have to walk around her or ask her to move.

Severus wondered if the Sorting Hat had given _Lily_ a choice.

“So all are born good, then?” he asked, stopping short of a sneer. “There is not one person born with evil inside them that can come to choose good, in the end? How disappointing,” Severus said.

Lily looked confused, but stood her ground. “How could that _possibly_ be disappointing?”

He leaned forward, pleased to see her remain still, unintimidated.

“Isn’t the redemption of a truly evil person brought to see the value of goodness more valuable? Or are we all destined to fall from the goodness with which we are born?”

“I don’t want to talk philosophy,” Lily said, frowning.

“A casualty of your association with Potter, I’m sure,” Severus said dismissively.

“No,” Lily said, pointing at him with a finger, rather than a wand. “You seem determined to make this about the abstract, but I’m trying to talk about YOU.” She pushed toward him, and without thinking, he took a half step back. “You, with all your intelligence and talent, willing somehow to turn your back on all of that to grovel at the feet of--”

Severus grabbed her shoulders and hissed at her, “Do not speak his name!”

“And there it is,” Lily said, as if he didn’t have his tainted hands on her at all. Untouched, unaffected. She shrugged him off and walked away, and Severus just stood there watching her, knowing he was moving farther away from redemption from something he hadn’t even fully chosen to do, yet. His mind desperately sought through all of the words he knew the meanings of to find one that could turn back the pages of time to when they were children again.

=====

Remus had come to a decision. He had initially intended to tell Hermione about his condition closer to an actual full moon, to benefit from being able to sense her reactions and feelings about what he would be saying. James’s comments to Sirius the night before had served to remind Remus of just how much he’d come to care for her, however. She was a genuine friend, and he was certain that the affection and caring he sensed from her during the full moon would be mirrored, now, by his own toward her. He didn’t want to wait another month.

“You’ve been awake a long time,” Peter said to him, sitting up in his own bed and putting on his slippers.

“Too much thinking,” Remus said. “What’s your excuse?” he asked Peter, knowing his friend couldn’t have known how long Remus himself had been awake unless he had been, too.

“Same,” Peter said. He paused at Remus’s bedpost on the way to the loo, and something about the way he fiddled with the curtain made Remus wonder if he was upset about something.

“Want to talk about it?” Remus offered.

“Not really,” Peter said. “Thanks, though.”

Remus got up and clapped Peter on his back with affection. “Fair warning, I’ve decided to let Hermia in on my furry little problem. There’s a not-zero chance that Sirius may decide to let slip the real reason the rest of you lot have nicknames.”

“What if I don’t want to share that part of it?” Peter asked in a quiet voice. Remus was busy gathering his clothes to dress for breakfast, and he didn’t look up at Peter’s face.

“I can sense she’s trustworthy, Wormtail, and besides,” Remus said, “sharing a secret like this means it’s got less power over you. Won’t it be nice to be able to joke about it at lunch again?” James had told Lily about being Prongs during her visit with his parents and Sirius right before school started.

Peter didn’t respond, and by the time Remus had finished pulling his shirt on over his head, he was gone.

=====

Hermione was going to miss 1977 for many, many reasons, but right now, Professor Vera Sapiens was at the top of the list. Every single class she’d had with the blonde witch had been memorable, and when she and her fellow students entered the room today, Hermione knew that this class would be no exception.

Professor Sapiens wasn’t alone at the front of the room when they arrived. There with her at the front of the room was a short, sturdy looking man in faded Quidditch robes and a willowy blonde that reminded Hermione immediately of Fleur. The figure that caused the most stir in the room, though, was a centaur. 

Hermione looked across the room to see how her friends were reacting to the visitors. James was talking to Remus, excitement and anticipation written on his face, but Remus looked a little sick. Immediately, Hermione decided get up and sit closer to him.

“Hey, Remus,” Hermione said, sliding into the desk beside him. “Should we send some sort of warning to Lily that James was exposed to a Veela?” She hadn’t 100% sure of this at first, but after watching the reactions of her male classmates, Hermione would have bet house points on the blonde witch being at least part Veela.

“I wonder if we’ll be able to talk to them after,” James mused, clearly not paying attention given his surprise when he saw Remus and Hermione’s shocked expressions. “No, no, the _centaur_ ,” James said hastily. “Always wanted to meet one.”

“Yes, but what about a werewolf?” Remus said, sounding nervous. He wasn’t looking around at his classmates, but his knuckles were white where he was gripping the edge of his desk.

“Definitely,” Hermione said in a voice that brooked no opposition. It was one of those moments whose importance in the scheme of things felt so powerful that she could almost feel her magic simmering under her skin. Remus would spend so much time alone in his future, thinking of his friends as dead or as traitors. No matter how her absence would be explained, she hoped her opinion would stick with him nevertheless. 

“Do you think the man up there is a werewolf, Remus?” James asked with interest. Remus didn’t have a chance to react to either of them, as their professor clapped her hands and started the lesson.

=====

Hermione cast a warming charm on herself and pulled her blanket closer around herself. She had decided to come outside to finish up her Transfiguration practice because her heart was so full since lesson she’d just had for DADA that she actually worried about letting something important about the future slip.

The lesson had been about recognizing that fear, propaganda, and misinformation regarding magical creatures could cause people to hurt themselves as well as the magical creatures. Professor Sapiens had harped on the fact that being magical didn’t mean evil, and that while there were plenty of evil creatures in the world, assuming the worst was actually a very bad practice in defending against them. The centaur had commanded their attention with his story about being a young centaur and coming across a family in the woods. The father figure of the family had immediately cast a body-bind curse on him that had knocked him over, and his hooves had flailed in his fear, nearly injuring a human child. He was very grateful that nothing worse had happened, and that a young Professor Dumbledore had happened upon the scene and smoothed things over.

“Hone your senses, and you’ll learn when to curse first and ask questions later!” Professor Sapiens had told them.

“I would pay money to have forced Dolores Umbridge to sit and listen to that class under a silencing charm,” Hermione said to herself, giggling.

“Oh, hello Hermione,” Remus said, coming toward her from the right. “Who needs a silencing charm?”

“ _Merlin_ , Remus,” Hermione said, rubbing the goosebumps down along her arms. “Nice to hear my proper name out loud, though. Sit?”

Remus sat down across her, stretching his long legs out and reclining on his elbows, all ease and familiarity. “Silencing charm?” he reminded her.

“Oh, a very distasteful acquaintance of mine,” Hermione wrinkled her nose. “Has frankly awful opinions of pretty much every kind of magical creature, especially werewolves. I’d love to watch her turn apoplectic at being taught, rightly, that most werewolves aren’t any danger to anyone.”

It was a subject that Hermione was particularly passionate about, and she’d managed to forget exactly who her audience was as she’d warmed to her subject. Her hair shook free from its bindings as she’d spoken, and she stopped to cram it back into the Muggle hairband she’d conjured up for it that morning. After she’d done this, she looked over to see Remus smiling at her, a hint of vulnerability in his eyes.

She told herself she’d been absolutely correct in staying away, given that she’d basically done exactly what she’d promised herself not to do: given away some of her 1997 opinions. _In my defense, though_ , Hermione thought to herself, _Our professor also shares them_!

“Speaking of,” Remus said, pulling his legs up and sitting cross-legged, slightly leaning in her direction. “ _I’m_ a werewolf. Nice to meet you.”

Hermione’s heart stopped for a moment, and then she melted internally at how loveable Remus Lupin was, in any time period. He was just so _genuine_ , and in the years before Harry’s parents’ death, he was more openly clever and fun.

“Oh!” Hermione said, a beat too late to sound legitimately surprised. “You’re--” She stopped, completely defeated by the task of seeming dismayed, staggered, or concerned.

“--not the first werewolf of your acquaintance,” Remus finished for her cheerfully. “I’d guessed.”

“Fair enough,” Hermione conceded. “Definitely my favorite one, though,” she said.

Remus burst into startled laughter. 

“Don’t feel too honored,” Hermione teased. “You don’t know what the other ones might be like.”

=====

Hermia and Remus came in to the great hall for dinner arm in arm, laughing and talking in a way that would have made Sirius quite jealous if he hadn’t have known both of them so well. He made eye contact with Remus over the heads of Hufflepuff house as the two made their way toward the Gryffindor table, and mouthed ‘Did you tell her?’

Remus had already been smiling, but his grin grew wider and more confident as he mouthed back, ‘Yep, she’s brilliant.’

“I heard there was a Veela in your class today, James,” Peter said, looking jealous. Sirius watched James facepalm as Lily shot a look between James and Peter.

“James was a perfect gentleman,” Hermia said as she settled into her place beside Sirius. “He only drooled twice.”

Interestingly, Lily seemed to take this as confirmation that all was well during class, so she nodded her approval and ruffled James’s already wild hair. “Quidditch tonight?” she asked.

“No,” James said, slumping a bit in his seat. “Half of them have detention with _Filch._ ”

“Bad luck, Prongs,” Remus said. Everyone looked up at him, then over at Hermia. “What?”

“They’re worried because they think I don’t know your secret, Remus,” Hermia said. Sirius could tell by the look in her eye that she was about to say something outrageous, and he loved having that kind of an ‘in’ with how she was thinking. He wondered if she had a special look in her eyes for when she was about to kiss him, and resolved to find out, right after dinner.

“Yes, your terrible secret,” he said to Remus, elbowing Hermia and winking.

“The secret from Defense class,” James said, joining in. He winked too, but at Remus. “You _dog_!”

“Kissing a Veela,” Hermia tsked, “then breaking her heart, all in twenty minutes.”

“Remus, you are now a Man,” Sirius announced, reaching over to shake his hand.

“He is, and remains one, and I’ll hex anyone who says differently,” Hermia said in a soft, caring voice. 

The mood at the table changed, and Remus’s face turned red as Sirius and the others all smiled at him, their affection showing on their faces. 

“All right, knock it off,” Remus finally said, grabbing a cup of chocolate mousse. “I love you all, too.”

Beside him, Sirius heard Hermia let out a little satisfied sigh, and he hugged her against him.

“Thanks, love,” he said, kissing her temple. 

“He’s a good person,” Hermia said, resting her head against his shoulder. “Being a you-know-what doesn’t change that. I trust him.”

“Mmhmm,” Sirius said, his nose in her hair. “Me too.” Suddenly, Hermia pulled away, turning to face him and placing her hands on his shoulders. She looked determined.

“ _Please_ don’t ever let that trust change, Sirius,” she told him. 

He could hear the chatter of their friends start to quieten, their gazes turning to his girlfriend and the strange expression on her face. She was so focused on him that he didn’t think she noticed she was the center of attention.

“Of course not,” he said, looking her directly in her eyes so she could see his sincerity. She held his gaze for a long moment, emotions flickering across her expression in a way that would have daunted him had he not known how sweetly he cared for and worried about himself and his friends. She looked alternatively sad, then determined again, and finally, finally, embarrassed. Her gaze shot over to the rest of the Gryffindors staring at her, and she shut her eyes for a brief moment as though regretting her strange behavior. When she opened them again, she was back to her normal self.

“You’re a good person, too, you know,” Hermia said, the tone of her voice lifting into amusement and affection rather than the previous forceful pleading.

“Not so sure about that, just now,” Sirius said, answering her tone with a playful one of his own. “I’m thinking about tricking you out of studying tonight,” he whispered to her conspiratorially. 

“I’m considering letting you,” she said in her own whisper. The rest of dinner was uneventful, and afterwards, everyone drifted off in singles or pairs. Sirius took Hermia’s hand and pulled her towards the stairs to the astronomy tower, and true to her word, she didn’t resist a bit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While Remus has in the past showed Hermione a book about werewolves, it's important to remember he did that to see what her reaction might be, because he suspected she knew/was close to a werewolf, not because she thought HE was one. So this chapter doesn't represent a hole in continuity, it's a continuation of his evolving theories about who she is and where she came from.
> 
> It's 2% possible somehow I'm remembering the prior incident wrong, and if so, do tell me?
> 
> edit: finding some year discrepancy in my master file, so if you see 1976 anywhere, I apologize, trying to get them all.


	50. Destination

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Obligatory 'holidays interfering with writing/posting!' I hope everyone's New Year activities were safe and fun! _Apparently,_ holing yourself up with a computer and writing like a madwoman with visitors living in your house from out of state is rude, who would have thought?!

I feel something so right  
Doing the wrong thing  
I feel something so wrong  
Doing the right thing  
I couldn’t lie, couldn’t lie, couldn’t lie--  
Everything that drowns me makes me feel alive  
- _Counting Stars_ , One Republic

 

Hermione woke earlier than usual the next morning. While there had been a fair amount of snogging up in the astronomy tower the night before, the most meaningful part of Hermione’s time there with Sirius had been simply talking. He’d told her about his awful mother, how being a respected pureblood family seemed more important to her than the well-being of her own son. Sirius had told her how he’d felt almost like he’d been reborn when he’d woken up at the Potter’s for the first time after taking refuge there. He’d told her about James’s parents, how Dorea Potter had been the first person he’d come across that had truly illustrated how a person could be sorted a Slytherin and not be inclined toward cruel or selfish behavior. The Black family were proud Slytherins, but the way they treated each other betrayed their priorities in the very worst way.

As she’d tried to get to sleep last night, Hermione had been haunted by the truths she knew and the pain she knew she couldn’t prevent herself from inflicting. It was one thing to tell herself that being nice to Severus in the past would possibly change his understanding of her in her own time, but what did that say about what Remus would think of her? What would Sirius think of her? How could she reconcile the happiness she was taking for herself now with the fact that, if nothing changed, she was still allowing him to crash headlong into his destiny? Not just that, but how would he react to finally escaping from Azkaban and confronting Peter only to immediately be faced with a child that might as well have been Hermia’s daughter? 

When Hermione returned home, there would be no way to explain herself; he would have fallen into the veil over a year before.

Hermione woke up with a new plan. This new plan was similar to her old plan, in that she had no intention of telling anyone anything to _directly_ affect the future. Events like Lily’s sacrifice and Harry’s survival as the Boy Who Lived made up the very foundation of the fight against Voldemort. She couldn’t change Harry’s childhood up to the age of eleven. She couldn’t save Lily or James, because as much as she knew Harry suffered as a little boy, his life with the Dursleys was important. She couldn’t change that. _Or could she?_

Lily’s death ensured Harry’s survival because of her relationship with her sister, Hermione knew. Blood magic was old magic, complex and not often understood--or studied, for that matter. Did blood magic recognize married witches and wizards as blood relatives for something as powerful as a blood sacrifice? Hermione knew that Dumbledore had insisted Harry must spend a period of time with the Dursleys as a way of ‘refreshing’ the magical protection that Lily had warded her son with. Could James somehow survive and still maintain that magical protection? Hermione pulled the bed curtains tight around her, knowing from experience that the scratch of a quill against parchment could wake her sleeping classmates. After casting a silencing charm and a ward to prevent anyone from moving the curtains aside without her permission, she started to write down an outline of things to research.

CAN HARRY’S DAD KEEP HIM OR MUST IT BE PETUNIA?

Magical weddings
    What do typical magical weddings include?
    What would J&L plan to include?
Blood ritual?
    Binding ritual can possibly substitute for blood?
    Magical protection via life sacrifice
Blood relative guarantees safety
    Must be renewed yearly?
    One visit per X amount of time refresh?
    Must be _actual_ blood relative?
Can spouses count as blood naturally?
    Via blood/binding ritual during wedding ceremony?
How far does ‘safety’ extend?
    Worst case scenario: _Avada_ : protected
    Other Unforgivables?
Could Harry hurt himself under _Imperio_?
     If not, could one of us cast it if Harry is in danger from a Death Eater, thus activating the blood protection?
Research altered states and magical protective bond
    How minor an injury can be protected against?
    Harry’s broken glasses from bullying pre-Hogwarts =/= broken nose, concussion
Think of similar minor incidents which may have been reduced from major ones
    DEFINITELY QUIDDITCH
Would he be able to live with James and visit Petunia X # of times?

Hermione looked at her list, her stomach dropping to the floor. _This is what treason must feel like_ , she told herself. This was important. This was incendiary. This was beyond dangerous. This could, quite literally, change her world.

Hermione started rooting through her books and papers, looking for something valuable, but nondescript. She needed something someone would never toss out by accident, but would also never give a second look. She lifted a book, turned it over to see the cover, and smiled. Her potions textbook was something she would _have_ to have with her for class, unlike the nightmarish book Umbridge had required them to read useless sections from for class. Anyone who knew ‘Hermia James’ knew she hauled everything with her everywhere, so carrying her potions text would never cause any suspicion. 

She thought about what page she could charm to disguise her outline and notes. Hermione had done this high level illusion and secrecy charm once before, when she’d had to keep her school schedule somewhere she could refer to while at the same time keeping her use of a time turner secret. Thinking about her third year gave her an idea, one that made her laugh, unexpectedly.

Turning to page 394 of her potions textbook, Hermione lined up her seditious outline and said the complicated weaving of words and wand motions that would bind the page to the loose parchment, obscuring it beneath the page’s actual content. She placed her hand palm-down on the page and said one last incantation, feeling the rush of magic flow from inside her along her arm, through her palm, and into the page.

Looking at the page, she saw nothing out of the ordinary. Hermione placed her hand, palm down, on page 394. Nothing happened. She felt a sense of satisfaction in having done the spell sequence correctly. Now, the only way she could unlock her secrets would be to touch the book in a completely unnatural way, the back of her hand lined up just so, on only that particular page. No accidental touch of her palm or fingertips would reveal her subversion of Dumbledore’s instructions.

Hermione had promised to never tell anyone what their future held. She did not plan to break that promise. Instead, she planned to nudge her friends and loved ones away from some things and toward others. Strengthen the bonds of friendship against believing the worst of each other! Use more detection wards. Perform a blood ritual at your wedding? Simple stuff.

=====

Sirius flew in tight circles around the Whomping Willow, the chilly morning air and light snowfall serving to keep his senses sharp and his reaction time down to milliseconds. He hadn’t spent much time on a broom so far this year, probably because James hadn’t (except for Quidditch, of course). Lily wasn’t as into flying as the rest of his friends, James preferred to spend his time with Lily, and now that Sirius had Hermia, he understood completely. Her fear of flying was something he didn’t think about much, but now that the first snowfall was threatening to be a heavy one, Sirius wondered if there was something he could do to change her mind. Flying above a pristine landscape and getting to see the beauty of Hogwarts’ outer reaches without leaving a single mark of yourself to mar it was, secretly, his favorite part of winter. That, and Christmas.

Sirius soared out of the reach of a swift moving willow branch, delighting in the way the already fallen snow was flung toward him by the force of the swipe. He had an idea of what he might like to do for Hermia for Christmas, aside from a present which he hadn’t had a clue about yet. The plan would require her to ride a broom, tandem on his, if necessary. 

A thin twig swung out along his trajectory and snapped against his ankle, and Sirius lifted out of reach, wincing. It was time to go see what the other Marauders were doing for their own Saturday morning post-breakfast activities. James might want to practice the snowball hex they’d seen in a magazine last week, once more snow fell.

=====

She had missed breakfast, but when Hermione had come back through the portrait hole hauling two heavy tomes from her ‘quick’ trip to the library she was delighted to find that James had worked his magic with the house elves again. Sirius came in shortly after she did, and she kissed his cheek before she sat down, shocked to find how cold his face was. He made a comment about her warming him up, but soon focused on James and Remus, who were talking about Quidditch. Peter finished reading a pamphlet of something and then went up to the boys dormitories, telling the other Marauders he’d be back later.

Hermione settled down with the smaller of the two books, completely focused on the task of learning everything she could about magical marriage traditions. She was ten pages into a chapter about ancient marriage ceremonies for pureblood families when she felt like someone was looking at her. Hermione lifted her head to see three pairs of eyes staring at her, in various stages of ‘as wide as saucers.’

She looked back down at the book in her lap with fresh eyes. Both James and Sirius were part of pureblood families, and here she was reading about the marriage traditions of pureblood families. _The most ancient and noble House of Black._

“Oh,” Hermione said. “ _Oh_. No, um, this is research,” she said, feeling her blush spread across her cheeks like a drip of water on a paper towel.

“You know that doesn’t actually preclude--” Remus started to say, pointing his finger between Hermione and Sirius.

“For a wedding I’m invited to,” Hermione rushed over the rest of Remus’s sentence. “In January.”

“You do know it’s the beginning of November,” James said.

“You do know this is _Hermia_ we’re talking to,” Sirius said, sounding a little stressed.

“I got the invitation and realized I don’t know _anything_ about magical weddings,” Hermione said, looking over at the three of them innocently. “I mean, I suppose I could have asked one of _you…_ ” she trailed off.

All three of them now looked very uncomfortable.

Just then, Lily climbed through the portrait hole, recognizing immediately that something was up.

“All right, what--”

James popped to his feet and moved to stand in front of Lily, smiling at her. “How many times must you come through to this very common room only to find that some kind of mischief is going on? Not very relaxing, I’m afraid,” he said with false solicitousness. “Shall we break this tradition, today? Shall we go for a walk, and put whatever these children are doing behind us--”

“The children come _after_ the ceremony, Prongs,” Remus said, unable to contain his laughter at the completely and utterly _black_ look James shot him.

“ _As_ I was saying,” James began again, but Lily’s curiosity was piqued, and there was no deterring her.

“What magical artifact or device have you discovered, broken, or created?” she asked the four of them. Triumphantly, the three Marauders all pointed to Hermione.

Hermione pointed to her book.

“Right,” Lily said, an odd look on her face. “Shall we?” she said to James. “I do _not_ want to know,” she said, as the two of them left the common room.

=====

Hermione should have known that wouldn’t have been the last she’d hear from Lily about the book, but it was nearly a full day later (and a vigorous snowball fight that had necessitated baths for everyone who participated) before Lily spoke with her about it.

“You did not have to do this,” Hermione said, toweling off her wet hair with one of the magically heated towels from the Prefects’ bathroom. “But I’m really glad you did,” she added, burying her face in the towel to enjoy the clean warmth of it.

“Mmm, me too,” Lily said, covered in three towels and looking content and delighted. “I will never get over how there never seems to be a limit to these towels. I used six once,” she confessed.

“Definitely the best part of getting to use this bathroom, to be sure!” Hermione said, pulling her shirt on and smoothing the hem against her trousers. “A sock warmer?!” she said, hardly feigning her shout of glee, as she _loved_ the magical device so much she’d resolved to obtain one herself once she had her own place.

“If you can’t make your boyfriend cast a warming charm on them, that’s the next best thing,” Lily agreed, winking at her. “Is that one of the wedding vows, do you think? ‘ _I vow to always warm your socks and towels until the end of our days_!’

“I wondered when you’d get to that,” Hermione said wryly. “I really wasn’t trying to make trouble! It never occurred to me--”

“That’s what makes you adorable, Hermia,” Lily said to her as she got dressed. “Did you know that at least two witches tried to trick Sirius into relationships last year?”

Hermione’s jaw dropped. “Were they expecting... what, that if they’re his girlfriend he’ll automatically marry them? How does that follow, exactly?” She wanted to know on many levels, if she was honest.

“I think it’s a pureblood thing,” Lily said, braiding her hair and fastening it in place with the dragon clasp Peter had given her for her birthday. “From what James says, most pureblooded witches and wizards marry the people they were dating in school. It was one of the reasons he was so determined to catch my attention, or so he told me.” The gentle red blush on Lily’s cheeks only served to make her more beautiful, and Hermione thought with frustration about how hers always ended up looking like ripe apples or maybe a first-degree sunburn. The two of them sat on the marble steps that led to the stained glass window, both clearly too invested in their conversation to go out where it could be overheard.

“I never thought of that,” Hermione said. 

“You should,” Lily said seriously. 

Hermione had goosebumps.

“So, clearly this is a Thing I didn’t know about--which is all the more reason to read that book, I might add--but what does this mean for you?” Hermione couldn’t help asking.

Lily smiled, looking down at her hands, smoothing her left hand out along her thigh and touching her ring finger. “I’m good with it,” she finally said.

“Oh!” Hermione said, hugging her impulsively. “I won’t say anything, of course,” she promised.

“I know you won’t,” Lily said, her voice somehow both trusting and threatening at once. “What about you?”

“Too early, far too early!” Hermione squeaked, ignoring the inner voice that was cheering for everything related to commitment and long-term relationships. “I really, truly just wanted to know what to expect at a magical wedding. The couple involved are, well, the groom is nearly family,” she told Lily. “A dear friend of mine is _in_ the wedding, and she’s so stressed out that she doesn’t want to have anything to do with looking up traditions and whatnot.”

This was actually true, Hermione remembered. Ginny undoubtedly knew more about magical weddings simply by virtue of being born in a magical family, but she had confessed to Hermione that she hadn’t ever really thought about it, and could not bear any more wedding related stress. Hermione _had_ intended to look up the possibilities, but it had slipped her mind. She supposed that looking out for her friend even before either one of them was born would probably give her ‘friend points,’ if and when she could ever tell Ginny about it.

 _Oh_. Telling Ginny about Sirius. _She wanted to do that._

“Earth to Hermia,” Lily was saying, her wand in her hand, which more than anything else told Hermione just how long she’d spaced out.

“Okay, cheeks. Full Red Delicious, I deserve it,” Hermione said, covering her face in her hands.

“Tell you what,” Lily said, squeezing her shoulder. “We’ll set up tomorrow night in the common room with the veil Frankie Bellwether from Hufflepuff brought with her ‘just in case,’” Lily rolled her eyes; “I’m sure she’ll lend it to me. Then we’ll get cozy and flip through that book and see exactly how uncomfortable we can make Potter and Black, yeah?”

Hermione couldn’t wait.

=====

Sirius hovered over the edge of the Forbidden Forest on his broom, bundled in the rich fur coat he’d brought from #12 Grimmauld Place to the Potter’s and now Hogwarts. His mother had had no intention of him possessing something so valuable, and therefore he was quite content to be wearing it right now. The landscape below him was so beautiful as to make his heart hurt, in a good way. It looked like how he expected his parents’ lives had looked, before he was born: pristine, full of potential, ready to be destroyed by the unexpected footprints of creatures who had yet to set foot on it.

It had stopped snowing after about 12 hours, the winter sun long since set, the moon just under half full. Every delicate branch and bough of the trees below him were painted with a thick layer of white snow, the familiar ground beneath him obscured by the snow that covered its distinguishing features.

He thought about the realization on Hermia’s face that she was sitting beside him and reading from a comically large book of wedding traditions. What a contrast from last year! The words from James’s father came to him, advice given freely with no strings or conditions or judgment that past summer.

“You’ll know. You’re strong, son. Those girls were no match for you, that’s why they reached out with claws and traps.” Sirius had worried that the affection he was feeling for the whole Potter family was going to burst through his chest and destroy the gifts he’d been given. Instead, he was enveloped in a half-hug that had somehow both intensified the bursting feeling and soothed it into something almost bearable.

“Don’t think I’d have wanted either one of them,” he’d said. “My mother would have been delighted.”

“When you find her, whether it’s months or years, the rightness will be so sharp you’ll wonder how anyone ever survives it,” Fleamont had told him. “Dorea can still slice right down to the very heart of me.”

Sirius rubbed his chest. The father he’d chosen for himself had been so very right.


	51. Determination

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Something wonky happened in posting this initially, and I had to delete and repost. I apologize for any inconvenience.

Save me, somebody take my hand  
And lead me  
Slow me down  
Don’t let love pass me by  
Just show me how  
‘Cause I’m ready to fall  
Slow me down--  
Don’t let me live a lie  
Before my life flies by  
Chasing the clock and I wish I could stop it  
Just need to breathe, somebody please  
Slow me down _ -Slow Me Down,  _ Emmy Rossum

There was nothing for it: Hermione would need to access the Restricted Section of the library. Before she tried to get her hands on the Invisibility Cloak again, though, Hermione decided to try telling some, not all, of the truth to someone who might grant her access. Bundling up for the cold, snowy weather outside, Hermione grabbed the letter she’d just written and headed out with her school bag. She was up early (again) for a Monday, and no one else from her group of friends were in the common room.

The Owlery was chilly, and Hermione’s fingers kept fumbling as she tied her scroll to a very patient owl. She made sure to give it a treat. As she reached the warmth of the school building again, she met Sirius heading out with his broom and his bag. The fur-lined coat and expensive gloves he was wearing were a reminder of just how wealthy and well-known his family really was. As always, though, Sirius wore his heritage with a casual indifference that was as impressive as it was endearing. 

“Mia! You must come here right now and kiss me, my mother  _ loves _ this coat,” he said to her urgently.

Hermione immediately understood. “You’re just using me because I’m Muggle-born,” she complained, walking over to him and sliding her hands through the fur.

“And your brains,” Sirius said, kissing her lightly. “And your cleverness,” another kiss, deeper this time. “And your beauty,” he said, against her lips as though loathe to move away even to compliment her, his hand winding into her hair. “And--” Hermione kissed him before he was able to finish the statement, her tongue chasing the sweetness of the hot chocolate he’d had before going out. It might as well have been laced with firewhiskey for how intoxicating he tasted to her.

Sirius lifted her up against him, his strength showing as his lips never left hers. His next action confused her until she felt a strange sensation of  _ lifting _ , and Hermione looked around to find that he’d mounted his broom, with her weight fully supported by his right leg.

“This had better be a set up to a ‘sweep me off my feet’ joke,” she told Sirius.

“I want to show you something, Mia,” Sirius said, opting for sincerity. “No tricks, no pranks, just my favorite thing shown to my favorite person.” His grey eyes sparkled with intensity in the morning light, and she was blown away. She couldn’t completely turn off her brain, even in a moment like this, however.

“Don’t oversell me,” she said. “You’ve only known me for a very short time. I might have, I don’t know, some horrible personality quirk you’ll hate.”

“That’s the thing about you, though,” Sirius said, bringing the broom back down to earth without setting her down with it. “You’re always thinking about me, wanting to protect me, even when it comes to you. I don’t think you realize how rare that is.” He leaned over and kissed her softly.

“I love you, of  _ course _ I want to protect you!” Hermione said instinctively. The words took a few seconds to register, after she heard herself say them. “Oh!”

“Don’t take it back?” Sirius said, holding her close and resting his forehead on hers. He looked completely overcome.

“I would never take it back, no matter what. You hear me?” Hermione said, suddenly very fierce. “No matter  _ what. _ ” She surged forward and kissed him, open-mouthed and needy. He met her with equal intensity, and they stood there, the perfect illustration of young love, as students and faculty came and went around them.

=====

Minerva recognized the owl that flew in and proffered a scroll from its leg as a Hogwarts owl. She was in the midst of sitting and overseeing an in-class essay when it appeared, and so there was no interruption to her teaching flow, for which she was grateful. When she saw who it was from, she wasn’t surprised.

> _ Dear Professor McGonagall, _
> 
> _ I must speak with you about some things I feel I must research, things I would be researching right now had I not fallen back into the past. As you might imagine, these are things that students at Hogwarts should not have to think about, much less deal with, but here we are.  _
> 
> _ I must also be honest, I am very burdened by some of the things I know of the future. As sympathetic and great a man as Headmaster Dumbledore is, he seems to live in a world untouched by worries and consequences, and I wish to speak with someone who is more grounded in the here and now, as ironic as my saying that may be. _
> 
> _ May I visit your office after dinner? _
> 
> _ Your student, _
> 
> _ Hermione Granger _

Minerva knew which owl treats the owls liked best, so she tapped a few from the envelope she kept them in and hurriedly wrote a positive response for Hermione, careful to mark it with her 1977 name, just in case. The owl soared off, probably showing off for the class, and she silenced a few titters with a severe expression unmatched to the intrigued way she felt inside. The fact that Hermione had signed her letter as from her true name planted a seed of dread and excitement that Minerva found herself unable to completely dispel.

After dinner, she heard a knock and, rather than forcing the nervous girl to come across the mostly dark, empty classroom by herself, Minerva crossed the room quickly and opened the door in person.

“Good evening, dear,” she said, stepping aside so Hermione could walk past her into the room. “We’ll take tea in my office space--it’s through the little room you and James Potter found yourselves this year.” Her perfectly straight face was practiced and easily adopted, but she let her eyes crinkle a bit at the edges to show Hermione her amusement. 

“That detention has to be the most diabolical I’ve seen or heard of in all my years at Hogwarts,” Hermione said vehemently. “Everyone was impressed.”

“That might explain the good behavior I’ve been seeing lately from Gryffindor House.” There was a teapot and a plate of pastries for them when they entered the office, and the two of them settled down in the chairs set up in front of her desk. They exchanged pleasantries for a few long minutes, the suspense gathering in her stomach until Minerva couldn’t wait any longer. 

“So, what brings you here today? Given the signature on the message, I presume it’s to do with your--”

“My reality,” Hermione interrupted, a look of grave seriousness on her face. “I don’t want to break any perceived rules about time travel--and, how ridiculous I sound even saying things like that! Keeping everything to myself is starting to make me feel like I’ve gone mad--I need to talk about some of these things with somebody, to be quite honest. I also need to research something that… might require access to--”

“The restricted section of the library?” Minerva asked shrewdly.

Hermione nodded. Minerva felt a deep sense of kinship with the young witch. She clearly felt a moral dilemma, and there were two ways she was dealing with it: research and seeking help from someone she trusted. It was telling that she sought advice, wrestling with what she knew and how to deal with it instead of trying to bend the future to her will with the knowledge advantage she had, or seek to erect walls around herself, directing all thoughts inward.

Minerva stood, pulling her wand from her skirt pocket and leaning over to brush a tear from Hermione’s eye, noting how she leaned slightly into the touch.

“It’s clear you see me as a person you trust, and I don’t mind telling you that makes me feel good about my future self and how the next twenty years pass,” she told Hermione, turning to cast a battery of silencing and warding charms. “You no doubt recognize some of these spells. You may speak freely, with no concern about being overheard or recorded.”

Hermione was biting her lip, having visibly relaxed on seeing the many protective spells Minerva had cast. She realized that Hermione must now be concerned with what, if anything, to share with her.

“I took care of the room, but I can do nothing with myself more than promise you discretion,” Minerva said in open honesty. 

“Oh, your word is more than enough,” Hermione rushed to assure her. “I’m just trying to separate out things  _ we _ know, with things I know, and  _ when _ you’ll know them.” Hermione took a sip of her tea and wrapped her hands around the now comfortably warm mug. “Right. Despite appearances here at Hogwarts, you are fighting a war, yes?”

Minerva nodded. “It’s long since passed worse enough to call it that, but I still wince at the term.”

“Have you ever watched a Muggle film?” Hermione asked suddenly. “Or seen a programme on the television?”

Taken aback, Minerva could only shake her head.

“Well, I’m trying to describe a pause in the action--oh! Imagine reading a really captivating book, then. You place your bookmark, and everything that’s happening in the story is basically frozen until you have time to read more.” She paused, noting Minerva’s nod, and continued. “So, at some point in the future, the war is… paused.”

“Paused, but not won,” Minerva guessed.

“Yes. And some terrible things happen, and some good things, and I--I just don’t know how to preserve the good things without the terrible things!” Hermione shut her eyes and took some deep breaths before opening them again and fixing Minerva with a steady look. “That’s why I came to you.”

“Firstly, I imagine that would be overwhelming to me if I were in your position, so I can appreciate that you need someone to talk to,” Minerva said, as kindly as she could. “Secondly, do you need advice, or an ear? I can offer both, but I prefer to keep my memory intact, and I am only human.”

“It’s a pity Muggle recording devices are so large in this time period,” Hermione said in a mock wistful voice. “I would give ten galleons to have that last bit on playback.”

Minerva hurrumphed. “Presumably you mention a Muggle device because you know better than to think I’d let you cast a spell to record me.”

“Exactly. But I do trust you, Professor, I always have.”

“Well, then. Share what you feel you must, and I’ll do my best to stay objective,” Minerva said. “You spoke of a pause in the war,” she prompted.

“Yes, there’s a kind of… crescendo, then a pause,” Hermione said, hesitating.

“People die, I presume?” Minerva said, steeling herself for the look that would likely follow if she were right. It was too late to take it back.

Hermione’s face did fall, her eyes scrunched up tight as though to deny the images she might be seeing in her memory. She nodded.

“People do die in war,” Minerva said, hating the sentiment but knowing it was important to convey. “The very best we can do is ensure that it’s for a purpose.”

“That’s the problem,” Hermione said miserably. “The very  _ worst _ of it  _ has _ to happen, at least as far as I’ve been able to figure, and there’s a prophecy--but it hasn’t been made, yet.”

She was clearly working herself up again, and Minerva leaned forward, patting her hand on Hermione’s knee. “Maybe if you break your timeline into sections?”

“Al-All right,” Hermione said, setting down her cup and crossing her arms. “More witches and wizards are joining You-Know-Who, and they’re already hurting Muggle-borns by 1977, am I right?” At Minerva’s nod, Hermione continued. “So, that’s a section. Then, there’s a prophecy made, and it concerns You-Know-Who, and some other people. We--I mean  _ you, _ the Order of the Phoenix, care for the other people.”

Minerva smiled in encouragement when Hermione mentioned the Order, again heartened by the knowledge and ownership in the way she spoke about it. 

“Then, something… happens, and the war is paused.” Hermione’s body language tightened. Her mouth drew into a thin line and her hands clutched at her crossed arms, but the set of her jaw and the way she kept her posture ramrod straight were clear indications of the way she was warring within herself. 

“And afterwards?” Minerva couldn’t help asking. 

“Then, well, I don’t know what happens, because I was a baby, but when the war starts up again it doesn’t feel as though  _ anyone _ was prepared, honestly.” Hermione stood up and started pacing along the little rug that sat just inside the office doorway. “So maybe I can’t save… but I could encourage, you know? To stay ready.”

“That information certainly doesn’t sound world-breaking,” Minerva said. “What about the prophecy? Did they-- _ we _ seem to think it was fulfilled, then?” She couldn’t imagine herself turning her back on something that was unfinished.

“I don’t know what was on Dumbledore’s mind at the time,” Hermione said, eyes narrowed in thought. “But the circumstances could have been interpreted that way. I don’t know much about it, though.”

“You’re sure it hasn’t been made, yet?”

“Definitely sure,” Hermione assured her. 

“I’ve always secretly been curious about prophecies. How does one separate the poppycock from the genuine, as such,” she told Hermione. “I positively  _ loathe _ Divination, and yet.” Minerva threw her hands up in frustration. 

“I completely agree.”

“So, I presume you wish you could save some of the lives aforementioned?” Minerva said. Hermione stopped pacing and leaned against the door, tipping her head back with a mild thump.

“Yes, but the sequence of events…” she straightened and looked at Minerva with sad resignation. “I mean, there’s eventually someone who can’t be trusted, but  _ when  _ can he not be trusted--oh!” she clapped a hand over her mouth in horror.

“Most of the Order are male, dear,” Minerva assured her. “That’s hardly enough of a secret to do harm.”

Hermione was already drawing back within herself, however. The excitement was gone from her eyes, replaced by a look of resignation. “I should have known better than to open my mind up to thinking about all this, much less  _ talking _ about it. I’m sorry, Professor.”

It took all her self-control to simply nod and escort the girl out of the classroom and warmly wish her a good evening, but Minerva sensed that she needed to avoid arguing at all costs. Hermione had enough on her mind without being worried about making a mistake in trusting someone that she clearly cared so much about. It was touching, and after she’d settled herself back at her desk, Minerva hoped she was worthy of that trust. She wrote a quick note to Madam Pince that allowed Hermione access to the restricted area of the library before she became too distracted by the vague events that had just been described.

She had a lot to think about, not the least of which to wonder how in Merlin’s name it was possible to  _ pause _ a war.

=====

_ Dear Hermione, _

_ I’m starting to feel like my night time routine needs to involve repeating ‘I will not feel guilty for my own happiness’ over and over until I fall asleep. I try not to buy into house prejudices, but I honestly believe that had I been sorted anywhere but Gryffindor, I would have been put into a temporary coma until the solstice. The urge to change things, to just walk up to James and tell him his future is *overwhelming.* The weight of responsibility to keeping Harry safe and his future un-touched is what’s stopping me. That, and hearing Sirius’s voice in the Shack yelling about dying for one’s friends. _

_ I remind myself again and again, that my reality is a decent and good one, despite losing those we’ve lost on the way. That Harry has lived through all these things I know about (and surely some I don’t), and he is still an honest, strong, brave, kind person that I’m proud to call my friend. Do I really want to trade that for an unknown future? If James and Lily are targets in 1981, won’t they be continue to be?  _

_ I need to spend more time in the library. Avoidance is exactly what I think stopped everyone from being ready for You-Know-Who to return. _

=====

Hermione quietly recast her protection charm and Notice-Me-Not charm on her diary as she did every Monday evening. The library on Monday tended to be populated with very few students, which made it the perfect evening study location for Hermione. Lily’s plan of reading marriage magic books with the borrowed veil was postponed when Lily found a Third year student crying in the bathroom, and asked Hermione if she could spend the evening comforting the younger Gryffindor instead.

“More blood magic?” Remus whispered in her ear. Hermione whipped around to find him standing beside her, his hands open wide in a show of being non threatening. She lowered her wand sheepishly.

“I’d ask you how you don’t know any better than to sneak up on me, but I think you  _ do _ , and risk it anyway,” Hermione chastised. 

“You just have to surround yourself with good mates; I’m more likely to hit Sirius with a pillow than a hex, nowadays,” Remus said good-naturedly. 

Hermione swallowed the large lump in her throat and nodded. “I’ve heard of your pillow fights,” she said. “but it  _ would _ be nice to only ever have to work with close friends, wouldn’t it?” She suddenly had a thought. “What do you plan to do after Hogwarts?”

His face fell. “I can’t say I haven’t given it much thought, because I have,” he said, shaking his head. “I appreciate attitudes like yours and Professor Sapiens, but they’re the exception, not the rule. I expect I will struggle to find something I’ll feel worthwhile doing.” He dropped himself onto a nearby stool meant for reaching the high shelves.

“I’m sorry, I should have known better than to ask.” Hermione looked down at her wand to avoid seeing anything like defeat or frustration in his eyes. Seeing it reminded her of one of her favorite spells,  _ Expecto Patronum. _ “What about being a tutor?” she blurted out. 

“That… has some potential, actually,” Remus said.

“I mean, you are great at explaining things, even when you’re doing it to be a smart-ass,” Hermione teased. “And you have a way of really listening to people, especially one-on-one.”

Remus had been resting his chin on his hand, looking up at her, but her comment obviously made him self-conscious, as he dusted off his trousers and stood.

“Well, I have studying of my own to do,” he told her, squeezing her shoulder as he turned to walk away.

“Remus,” Hermione said in a soft voice, turning to watch him. “You’ll have your friends to help, you know. You shouldn’t have to look alone.” The brilliant smile on his face in response helped to dispel the pain she felt in her chest at the stark truth in the sentiment. 

He shouldn’t _ have _ to, but in a few years, he would.

**Author's Note:**

> [ Decided to make a Spotify playlist for the story, this is the songlist for the PAST. The one for the 'present' would be full of spoilers, so you'll have to wait ;)](https://open.spotify.com/user/darsynia/playlist/2QHMCRsJXdhF0W7jsAdobT) I will shift this note once I start writing the 'present' section, so that it doesn't get mixed up or spoil anybody!


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